Lost and Found
by IAmTheHereticChild
Summary: Sherlock Holmes doesn't know what to think when his childhood best friend returns from the dead. Or, what he thought was the dead. He only knows that she's not the same, and he isn't either... You might have to keep reading, it gets better after the first few chapters, I promise!
1. Chapter 1

**So. **

**Here we go again! This fic has been in the works for a very long time. A _very_ long time. It's also long. _Very_ long. Stick with me here, I promise it'll be worth it. **

**Thank you for reading!**

* * *

Florence Wood was missing. She had gone out late one night, seemingly fine, and had not returned. She had vanished without a trace.

Sherlock Holmes had been trying for almost nine years, to track her down and to find her. He assisted Scotland Yard in their biggest and most interesting "Missing Person" case, but to no avail. She had well and truly disappeared.

Sherlock could not remember a time where she was not at his side, and now that she was gone, he felt her absence like he had lost a limb, and it was as painful.

It was blatantly obvious that they could not live without each other.

He had presumed something was wrong. She was acting strange before she disappeared, the dark lines under her eyes were more prominent, and she looked gaunt. She shook continuously, and would often have to excuse herself as tears began to stream down her cheeks. He suspected drugs, but he knew her not to be like that. She resented the very idea. However, it became increasingly obvious that that was the case, and that she needed serious help.

When she had first disappeared, Sherlock didn't know who to turn to. She had no parents or siblings, only a senile old grandmother and three uncles. He didn't know their names, but once he had tracked them down they all said the same thing:

"She watched her mother die."

Of course, Sherlock knew this. He had been the one she called, muttering into the phone with a hint of panic in her voice – 'I don't know what to do, she just fell – she saw me coming and she leaned backwards and she fell.'

Sherlock had honestly been trying to find her for years, and he didn't want to admit it, but deep, deep down he knew she was gone and there was no getting her back.

And it killed him.

* * *

'John!'

John Watson sighed, rolled his eyes, set down his tea and made a point of turning around to answer his friend. 'Yes, Sherlock?' he answered, exasperated.

'I'm going to Scotland Yard.' Sherlock answered, pulling on his dark trench coat and scarf, despite the fact it was mid June.

'Why?'

The man didn't answer, much to John's surprise. Instead he practically ran to the door.

'Why, Sherlock? A new case?'

'No.' Sherlock said, his voice taking a somewhat dangerous turn. 'I need to identify a body.'

'Oh.' this was everyday news to John. He was indifferent about it normally, but the way Sherlock was acting today made him curious. 'Who's?

'I don't know, John, that's why I'm identifying it.'

'Ah. I'll come with you?'

'No. I need to do this alone.'

* * *

'Sherlock.' Greg Lestrade greeted grimly as Sherlock made his way hurriedly up the corridor.

'Is it her?' he growled, ignoring Lestrade's attempt at friendliness.

'I don't know, Sherlock. It's been eight years since she went missing. She matches everything we had, though. It doesn't look good.'

'Cause of death?'

'With one look at her, you'd think starvation. However, Forensics think it was overdose.'

They stalked into the morgue, ready to identify the dead woman, but instead found her sitting awkwardly on the examining table. She didn't look at them as they entered.

Sherlock's heart dropped. He was certain it was her.

Her hair, dark and long, was tied in a top knot on her head. Her cheeks were as gaunt as they'd ever been. Her lips were thin and cracked. Her eyes were a brilliant green. Her skin was slightly paler than he remembered, but it was still her.

It was her. It was fucking her. The whole room seemed to fade out of existence, Lestrade's droning voice carried away like leaves on a windy day. He looked her up and down, and tried to ignore the blatantly obvious marks of self-harm up her arm, on her chest, on the part of her thigh not covered by the sheet she had covered her naked body with.

Looking at those cuts brought reality crashing down onto him, to find her staring at him with those big green eyes that he had missed so very much.

And it was obvious she did not recognise him.

'What's your name?' Lestrade was asking, but she did not answer. Instead, she just stared at Sherlock, her eyes devout of colour, her lips pale and cracked.

Eventually she looked at the man in front of her. 'Florence Wood.'

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat, and Lestrade's eyes widened.

'Do you know where you are?'

Florence looked around her, one hand firmly on her chest. Sherlock didn't want to deduce anything from her demeanor. He feared he'd find something terrible.

'A morgue.'

'Yes.' He nodded, and Florence nodded with him.

'Why are we in a morgue?'

'Because when we found you, your heart wasn't beating.'

She twitched slightly, the arm holding her sheet beginning to shake before she grasped it firmly with the other one. Sherlock frowned.

'That didn't necessarily mean I was dead.'

Lestrade's eyes glazed over for a second, obviously trying to make sense of what she had just said.

'Do you have any idea how long you've been missing for?' Sherlock spoke up, his voice controlled – he did not want to show any emotion towards her until he was certain she knew who he was.

'Eight years, seven months and nineteen days.'

'Were you counting the fucking days?' He sounded angry now, his fists clenched behind his back.

Florence suddenly looked concerned. 'Yes.' she answered, her brow furrowed.

'And you have nothing to say about that.'

'I don't understand.' she said, her voice becoming increasingly higher as her anxiety increased.

'You were counting the days since you went missing. Why?'

'I didn't know what else to do!' she answered, her voice shrill.

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathed in, opened them again and deduced her.

_Lack of body fat suggests living somewhere where there was little to no food available. Her fingers are raw and obviously bitten from anxiety. Her hair is dark, meaning the red dye has not been reapplied for at least four years, as it is completely gone. Her eyes are colourless, her hand shaking and there are obvious injection scars on her arm – drug addict, currently withdrawing. Self harm suggests she's been mentally struggling for a long time. The way she holds the sheet on her chest – tight. She does not want to let it go. I can only imagine she's hiding something. _

'Florence.' he said, his voice a lot calmer than before. 'We need to know. Where were you?'

The girl's hair tie fell out, and her hair cascaded down her back, to her waist. Her iconic fringe had grown out, and it now hung around her shoulders. Her head dipped in shame.

'I can't tell you.'

* * *

**See you again very soon ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello!**

**I really hoped the website wouldn't take the previous chapter down. the terms and conditions scared me a bit, but at least i read them. **

**Thank you for reading, commenting and following! This is so exciting :)**

* * *

_January 15__th__, 1992_

_Sherlock was not very good at making friends. Mycroft told him on a daily basis, his mother constantly worried about his social state, and it was clear none of the children at his school wanted to be his friend. They all thought he was a freak, how he could already count to one thousand, knew all his times-tables and who's writing had been perfected at the age of six. Now, at ten, he had mastered cursive and knew six languages. He also _knew_ things about people, just from looking at them. The children were scared of him, and they would all turn their heads away from him as he walked down the corridor. _

_All except one. _

_Her brow was furrowed as she looked at him, her green eyes somewhere between cautious and curious. Her thin lips were set in a line, and her dark hair was pulled tight into a ponytail, leaving the perfect fringe. She was the youngest in the class, and the smallest, but she was bright and witty. She was also three years younger than him. _

_She walked up to him, and extended her hand for him to shake. He stared at it hesitantly. _

_'I'm not going to bite.' she muttered, and he eventually took it, and shook lightly._

_'Sherlock Holmes.' _

_'I know. Florence Wood.'_

_'I know.'_

* * *

Three days later, Sherlock returned to the hospital. Florence had been placed in intensive care, moved from the morgue into a more inviting room, fit for someone very much alive.

He opened the door delicately, in case she was asleep.

She was sitting with her back to him, and even through the fabric of the hospital gown he could see her protruding spine. Her legs were crossed on the bed, but she was facing the wall, her legs almost resting on the pillow.

He watched her for a few minutes, unaware of what to do next.

'Of course I know who you are.' She said eventually, her voice hoarse. She had obviously either been crying or screaming, either of which was not good. She cleared her throat, and turned herself around to face him.

'I wasn't sure.'

'Your face has been in my head every day for eighteen years, Sherlock. I could never forget you.'

Before he could think, Sherlock found himself by the side of her bed, engulfing her in his arms from behind. She tensed a little, but managed to relax, and hug him back. 'It's been so long.'

'I know,' she said, her voice cracking. 'and I'm so sorry.'

'Where _were_ you, Flo?' he said, perching himself on the side of the bed.

She breathed in deeply. Sherlock could tell she was on the verge of tears, and he secretly hoped she wouldn't cry. He didn't want for his first impression of her as an adult to be negative, however selfish that was.

'For the first year or so, I was just in London. It was really terrible. I was just sort of floating aimlessly around the streets at night, and during the day I slept underground. I stole drugs from dens and dealers, and was nearly killed twice. I befriended people, mainly men, who would buy me drinks and the odd meal, just to keep me going. I wasn't enjoying any of it. I missed you terribly, but I couldn't go home. Not in the state I was in, but at the same time, I couldn't stop it.

'One night, just as the sun was rising, I was jumped by seven men, all of which were about thirty. They took it in turns to...' she paused, her lips paling and her sadness replaced with fear. She breathed in shakily, and when she started talking again, her voice was slightly higher. '… then they hurt me, a lot, and just left me. I must have blacked out, because I woke around two to three hours later, because it was already light and a man was bending over me. I tried to run away, my heart was pounding and I was just terrified. I couldn't, obviously, literally everything was broken and it all hurt so much.

'The man tried to be as gentle as possible, but I literally would not calm down. He was dressed in a black suit with a light blue shirt, and a dark blue tie. He introduced himself as Arthur Jackson, and informed me that he would be taking me somewhere safer. At that point, I didn't care, and I would rather I died than lived. He picked me up, which I remember as being surprising because he was so thin, but then remembering that I hadn't eaten properly in days. He put me in a black car. There were three other men, all of which were dressed similarly to Arthur, and they spoke in hushed voices. I remember nothing about the journey.

'We arrived at some warehouse, just outside London. They all helped Arthur lift me out, because every time he tried to move me I would wince or yell or something. He barked something at one of the men, who responded quickly and without question, which made me think that Arthur was the leader. When they set me down, it was on something soft, and as Arthur pulled away there was blood on his shirt. I moved the arm that wasn't broken up to my face, and when it came away my hand was red.

'The men left me then, and I drifted off quickly. When I woke, I barely felt any pain and my arms were bandaged. My face and limbs were clean, but they hadn't touched... anywhere else, which I was thankful for. I laid in silence for a little bit, until one of the men – James, his name was – came to check up on me. I looked at him, and he looked at me, and he called for Arthur. The rest of the men came with him, but stayed back with him whilst James, who I realised quickly must have been the most gentle, came and spoke to me. He asked my name, where I came from, what had happened to me, why I was alone. I didn't tell him everything, I feared they would send me back.

'I spent the next few years with them. I quit taking drugs, smoking and brought my alcohol intake down to two shots, or pints, a day. The men helped me, even supported me by quitting themselves. I had come so close to death, and it had meant so much, I couldn't afford to do it again.

'It turns out they were the British equivalent of a gang, but a lot nicer, and less feared. They were kind to me, but they hated the government. They scared me sometimes. I was nineteen whilst they were in their late twenties, early thirties. They spoke like they could kill me, and they did other stuff, bad stuff, and eventually they trusted me enough to tell me what. They swore me to secrecy.'

'So that's where you were, all this time?' Sherlock asked, intrigued.

'Not exactly. My friends got on the wrong side of a lot of people, and since I was something they all protected and cared about, I was kidnapped for about a year, tortured, but that's okay now, they killed the man-' she said it all so calmly. Sherlock would not have known, if he was anyone else, that this all actually happened to her. But now, as she spoke of her kidnapping, her hand flew to her face and she covered her mouth as she began to cry. Her hands then began to climb up to cover her eyes, and her shoulders shook.

'It's okay.' Sherlock said, his voice quiet. 'It's okay. You're here now.'

He reached out and pulled her towards him. She fell onto his chest, and he stroked her hair, like he did before she went missing. When they were so close Sherlock felt he could be himself in front of her.

He held her as she wept, and as she did so, his mind was racing in a way that he could not stop.

* * *

'She's suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, Sherlock.' Lestrade informed the detective as he walked into his office. He had waited with Florence until she fell asleep. She had cried the whole time. 'Her bones are weak, and almost every inch of her body is scarred, self inflicted or not - we can't tell.'

'She just told me what happened to her.' Sherlock muttered, cutting the man in front of him off.

'You don't have to tell me, unless there's information in it that we can use to our advantage.'

Sherlock's mind raced. Should he tell them about the gang? No. They were Florence's friends. She loved them, it seemed, and he wanted to give her the opportunity to see them again, if she wanted to, or if she could. He was aware that they could be dead. He was aware they might not be nice people. But she seemed to adore them, so that's all that mattered to him.

'Thank you.' he said quietly. 'When can I bring her back?'

'Sherlock...'

'I know, Greg.' Lestrade raised his eyebrow as Sherlock spoke. He was aware of the fact that the sociopath in front of him was emotional, which may have caused him to call him by his name rather than something else. 'I know. But-'

'I don't think that's a good idea at the moment. I know your history, and I know what you do... concerning her current situation. She also just... went away, willingly, for eight years. She didn't ever reach out to any of us, didn't tell us she was okay.'

'Yes. I know. I thought she was dead, and now she isn't dead-'

'But we found her dead, Sherlock.' Lestrade said. His voice had gained an edge. 'She was _dead_. She had obviously overdosed, and she was dead. And that's what concerns me.'

'There must be something that stimulates death. They stimulate everything else.' Sherlock knew he was wrong, as if the heart stops beating there's no going back, but he said it anyway. Emotions were making him stupid.

'If there is, it must be strong enough to actually kill. I don't know, Sherlock. Go home, we'll try and think of something.'

Sherlock guffawed. 'I'll go home, but it's incredibly unlikely you'll think of something, so I'll do the thinking.'

* * *

**:)**

**I like sharing this one. It's fun. It's also very scary, so I'd appreciate anyone who comments, good or bad, I really don't mind, it'll only improve my writing. **

**Thank you **


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm really hoping you're liking this. I can't stress how scary this is. It's something I haven't quite been embarrassed to admit I write, because it is a bit far fetched. It sometimes doesn't make sense, I don't think, and I'm working on that!**

**Enjoy :)**

***Yes, if you've noticed, I have made Sherlock taller. Benedict's only 6 feet tall, but in here he's **

* * *

_The next day._

_Bang_.

'Oh, for fuck's sake.' John muttered to himself, before jogging calmly down the stairs from his bedroom to the living room. Glass covered the floor from the explosion that shattered the windows a few hours before. He found Sherlock where he thought he would – on his arm chair, in his navy blue dressing gown, faced towards the ceiling with a gun in hand, like he had done the day before. 'Tell me you're not bored. They just found your girlfriend, or whatever she was-'

'Not my girlfriend.' Sherlock replied, a little too defensive for John to believe it.

'Okay, not your girlfriend, but they just found her, alive, and you're bored?'

'I never said I was bored.' He let his hand droop over the side of the arm chair, dropping the gun, before leaping up and skipping towards the wall. John noticed he was dressed underneath his gown.

'She said that she woke up, not feeling any of the _excruciating_ pain that she had felt before.'

'Where is this going?'

'Lestrade also said that she had overdosed on something, and when they found her her heart wasn't beating.'

'What are you implying?' John tried again, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

'Of course I'm going to have to check all of this with her later.' he said, practically running to the hall to put on his coat.

'Sherlock?'

'Drugs, John!' and with that, he was gone.

* * *

_January 5__th__, 1999_

_'So,' Florence said, a nervous laugh breaking her word into two sounds. 'The last day of being a _teenager_, Sherlock. Adulthood stares you in the face. How do you feel?'_

_'Very much the same.' Sherlock replied, quirking his eyebrow and tilting his head to one side. Florence laughed again. _

_They were walking down Carnaby Street, their arms inches from each other. It was just getting dark, and their faces were illuminated by the neon signs in each shop window. There weren't many people around, but still enough to make them both uncomfortable. _

_'And you're off to university in September.' she answered, her voice taking a sad turn. She had turned her face away, looking in the window of a particularly interesting clothes shop. She gazed wistfully at the dresses._

_'You mustn't worry, Flo. I won't be far.' _

_'But it will still make a difference.'_

_'Only an hours' difference. London isn't a very big place.'_

_'It is if you're small.'_

_'You're fourteen and five foot nine, Florence.'_

_'I consider that small, I'm not going to lie. Compared with your six foot four.' _

_Sherlock laughed, his eyes growing softer. _

_'I'm going to miss you.' she said quietly, stopping to face him. _

_'I'll miss you too. But we've still got eight months. Let's make it count.' _

_Her smile turned into a laugh, and she started walking again. _

_'What were your New Years' resolutions?' Sherlock said, in an effort to break the somewhat awkward silence. _

_'To spend more time with my mother. And to dye my hair. And to go _out_ more, I feel like I'm missing out on literally fucking everything.' she giggled. 'What's yours?'_

_'To live another year.' Sherlock said, no hint of sarcasm in his voice. Florence's face fell as she took that in. _

_'That's fair.'_

* * *

John Watson was not much of a thinker. He enjoyed the odd thought, if it was a good thought, but most of the time it was not a good thought, so he refrained from thinking.

However, when Sherlock didn't come home that night, it got him thinking.

'Drugs, John!' he had yelled, indicating he had come to a conclusion, to do with the mysterious Florence that he had talked about so often.

If John was being honest, he didn't like the sound of this 'Florence' bird. She sounded like a nasty piece of work. She literally went missing for eight years, and she had just been wandering around London, whilst drunk and incredibly high, and didn't contact him to tell him she was okay. It pissed John off. Sherlock didn't tell him much else, only that she was okay and suffering from withdrawal, but from the looks of it he was pissed too.

When Sherlock spoke about her before, he spoke of their friendship. They seemed close, almost too close – yet not _together_ close, which struck John as odd. There wasn't that big an age gap between them, just three years – once Florence was eighteen or when Sherlock was younger than eighteen, they could easily have dated, but they didn't.

Maybe Sherlock was waiting until she was eighteen to ask her out, but she had gone missing beforehand. That thought made John feel slightly upset, so he stopped thinking altogether, and fell asleep.

* * *

Sherlock left the room at Scotland Yard with a flourish, and hailed the first cab that came his way. His mind was reeling. Five pips. Four short and one long. Warning.

Saint Bartholemew's was a big place. However, Sherlock knew his way around it like the back of his hand, and was easily able to navigate his way to Florence's room.

He slowed his pace as he neared it. He didn't know what state she was in, and although she would have let him see her in any state eight years ago, she felt like a stranger to him, so he didn't know how she would react if she was having a breakdown.

And a breakdown she was having – her knees were brought up to her chest, and her head was laid on top of them. She was gently rocking back and forth, her eyes closed. She was singing softly to herself, a tune that Sherlock didn't recognise.

'Florence.' he said softly, and she stopped singing immediately. She raised her head slowly, her eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed. 'Are you okay? Do you want me to get someone...?'

'No, thank you.' she said hastily, bringing her legs down to sit on the edge of the bed and wiping her eyes. 'I'm fine.'

'Are you sure? Because I can come back another day-'

'Honestly, Sherlock, I'm okay. Did you want to ask me something?'

'Yes.' he said, pulling a chair from a small table in the corner of the room. 'You told me that when you woke up after arriving at the warehouse, you felt no pain. Can you tell me how long it was after you arrived that you woke up?'

Florence was slightly taken aback by the peculiarity of the question, but she thought all the same, rubbing her temples and grimacing in pain. 'It was definitely the same day. I remember lifting my broken arm and feeling nothing.'

_Strange_, Sherlock thought, _that's impossible._ 'And what about the day you were found? Were your... friends... with you that day?'

'Arthur was. We were separated when I went looking for something and he went looking for something else. He had given me something before we split up, a 'last resort' pill of sorts – it was supposed to stimulate death, in case we were attacked. I don't remember being attacked, but I must have taken the pill.'

'So you did overdose.'

'Not necessarily. You only needed the single pill for it to take affect.'

'Okay. That means that you were found dead because you were dead, but only for a certain amount of time?'

'Arthur said that the affect lasted three hours.'

'What affect?'

'Well, it made it look like my heart wasn't beating, but it was, really.'

'Okay. Is that a drug they made themselves?'

'I don't know. They got them from other places, but I'm not sure where. I think they might have made them themselves, or organised their creation.' She kicked her dangled legs thoughtfully. 'I want them back.'

'I thought you didn't take them?'

'I didn't take them obsessively. I had them for little depressive bursts, and if I got hurt. They would calm me down and stop the pain. I was not addicted, but I want them _now_, at this moment in time.'

Sherlock nodded in understanding. 'I've just quit smoking, would you believe it.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'John's 'encouraging' me, but all he's doing is trying _not_ to kill me as I tear the flat apart.'

'John?'

'Oh!' Sherlock exclaimed, his eyes brightening as he found something else to talk about. 'John. He's my flatmate.'

'Oh. Is he nice?' Florence's head was tilted towards the floor, and her legs were still kicking.

'I think so. I don't look for that sort of things.'

She laughed quietly. 'I know.'

They sat in silence for a while, which made both of them feel uncomfortable. 'I don't feel like we know each other anymore.' he said gently, unsure of what her reaction should be.

She looked up at him, her large, green eyes sad. 'Me neither.'

'And that's strange, because you were the only friend I had. You were there, and then you were gone.'

'I'm so sorry,' she said, but Sherlock looked away. 'I really am.'

'Are you, though? Are you sorry enough to take back the eight years where you _knew_ we were looking for you?'

Florence didn't reply. Her eyes closed and she stopped kicking.

'Are you fucking sorry enough to be okay?'

'That makes no sense.'

'I know!' he was yelling now, and had stood up. He was leaning over her, and looked as if he was going to strike. They both knew he never would, but it looked like it all the same. Florence didn't move, her lips in a hard line, her eyes suddenly dangerous. Sherlock suddenly noticed what he was doing. 'Shit.' he said, bringing his hands up to his face and rubbing it gently. 'Look at me. I'm fucking _emotional_.' he growled. He realised with some horror that the withdrawal was making him upset.

'I don't think I need to remind you that we're in a hospital room.' Florence spat, her voice warning him to stay put.

Sherlock suddenly clapped his hands and put them to his forehead. 'I've got it! I know how to get you out.'

'Really?'

'Yes. I've just got a case. Literally this morning. I can ask Lestrade if you can help with it. They want to give you therapy sessions, but this is far more interesting. And, you've got a mind almost similar to mine, without the...'

'Without everything that makes you you?' Florence offered, her voice hopeful.

'Yes.'

'Really?'

'Yes. What you and I _both_ need desperately right now is a distraction. This is the distraction!'

'What's the case? And since when did you do cases?' Sherlock glanced at her wearily.

'I've got a website. Now. The case looks to be dangerous, but I'm not one to judge. Yesterday, the flat across from mine blew up. Broke my windows. Bit annoying. Apparently a gas leak. Mycroft later set us with a case that is of "national importance".' his voice was dripping with sarcasm as he said it. 'a man jumped in front of a train, and the top secret plans for a missile defense system went missing. Then, Lestrade called me to Scotland Yard and told me that the _gas leak_ was in fact _not_ a gas leak, and was made to look like one.' Florence raised her eyebrows in disbelief. 'inside the ruins of the place was a strong box, and in _that_ was a letter adressed to me. Inside _that_ was a phone similar to one from a previous case. Basically, I was sent a threat through the Greenwich pips. Warned us that whoever blew up the building opposite ours is going to do it again. I was just in that meeting before I came to see you.'

'Sounds intriguing.'

'So, if the wonderful Inspector Lestrade _allows_ it, would you care to join me?'

Florence sighed, glancing up to the ceiling, then tugging weakly on her gown. 'Anything to get out of this.'

* * *

**Okayyyyyyyyyyy then**

**Bit of a perspective as to where we are. If you're not on the same page (ha, literature joke.. kill me now) we're at the Great Game right now. At the beginning. **

**Really hope you're enjoying this, and at the moment I've got all the chapters pre-written so it won't take long at all for me to upload more content. **

**Thank you for reading, and please comment and/or follow if you really want to, it would mean so so much :)**

***Also, if you hadn't noticed, I am English, hencewhy the spelling for 'realise' is with an 's' rather than a 'z'.**


	4. Chapter4

**Well, we know a little bit about Flo now. I know it's stupid, it's all a bit unrealistic (gangs..?), but that's what FanFiction is all about.**

**Within this chapter, I think, we learn a little more about Florence, and what she's trying to recover from. **

* * *

_Sherlock hated university. It was too dull. The work wasn't difficult, the lab too basic and the people ghastly and thick. He was done before most of the other students had even begun, which gave him more than enough time to explore the campus and the surrounding area. _

_He was only in the north of London, yet everything was unfamiliar to him, so he felt the urge to get to know it before it got the best of him._

_It was as he was sitting on his bed, reading a particularly interesting book on the Second World War, when he got a phone call from Florence Wood. _

_At the time, he did not perceive it as odd – they called to check up on each other every so often. But when he answered he knew something was wrong before she had even started speaking. _

_He couldn't hear anything, just quiet footsteps. They were slow – she was walking carefully. 'Flo?'_

_'It's my mother.' Florence replied, her voice grave and quivering. 'She's sitting on the balcony. Right on the edge. She hasn't seen me yet, but she's acting odd, Sherlock. I think she's going to-' then there was a slight pause, presumably as her mother turned to look at her. _

_Then there was the most ear splitting scream Sherlock had ever heard. Sherlock's eyes widened. He stood up from his bed, and started pacing. His roommate, Mark, came in to see what was going on, and, seeing Sherlock's state, stayed silent and watched. _

_'Florence?' Sherlock yelled, his voice panicked. He did not know who's scream that was. _

_'I don't know what to do, she just fell – she saw me coming and fell.'_

_'Calm down, where is she now?'_

_'Lying on the fucking pavement, her head...' _

_It was quite clear she was in shock. 'Florence. Listen to me. Is there another phone in the house? I want you to stay with me.'_

_'Okay. I'm going to find one.' her voice was quaking now, and Sherlock feared she would faint. _

_'Stay with me, Flo. Keep talking. Are you away from the balcony?' _

_'Yes. I've gone to find her phone.'_

_'Okay.' he waited a second. 'Have you found it?'_

_'Yes. I'm calling the police. Or the ambulance. I don't know what I'm doing, my fingers won't press the right buttons. Oh, dear God. What's happening, Sherlock? Why aren't I crying?'_

_'You're in shock, Florence. Which is why you just have to stay with-'_

_'I feel dizzy.'_

_'Shit,' Sherlock muttered, as he heard the clatter of the phone on the floor. He hung up after calling her name a few times, before dialling 999 himself. He knew her mother's address. _

_An hour later, he was at her house, trying desperately to wake the girl. The ambulance had arrived, and were dealing with her mother, so Sherlock could focus on Florence. She was fifteen, for Christ's sake. No one _near_ that age should have seen that. _

_It was as he was carrying her out of the house to the back of the ambulance that she woke. _

_'Oh my God,' she sad quietly, and her eyes welled with tears. Sherlock held her head and pulled it to his chest as she began to cry. At some point, a paramedic appeared to put a blanket around her shoulders, but other than that they were not disturbed. _

_And it was as she wept quietly into his shirt, he realised he was unshamefully in love with her._

* * *

Lestrade grudgingly allowed her to go, based entirely on the fact that he was going with them. She was given her clothes back and they hailed the first cab they saw to Baker Street.

Stepping gingerly out of the door, Florence breathed in steadily. She looked up at the building above her, at the boarded-up windows and the pleasant railings that covered half of them. Sherlock beckoned her to the door, and he unlocked it, yelling for Mrs Hudson as he did so. She came out of her flat, and John came swiftly down the stairs, frowning when he saw her.

'We need to look inside Two-Two-One-A, urgently. It's for a case.' Sherlock said to her, and she nodded, walking back into the flat to get the keys.

'Please,' John said quietly, so only Sherlock could hear. He shot him a look.

'You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock? When you first came to see about the flat.' Mrs Hudson said, her eyes trained on the man observing the lock on the door.

'It's been opened recently.'

'No, it can't be. This is the only key!' she muttered, before saying something about the damp on the walls and how that prevented people from buying it. Lestrade shut the door in her face.

They walked slowly down the stairs to the basement, Sherlock leading. Florence and John exchanged nervous nods in greeting, before staring at the only objects in the room.

A pair of shoes lay in the middle of the room, facing the door. Sherlock frowned.

The room itself was a small, low-ceiling place, with two windows. The wallpaper – similar to the wallpaper in 221B, was peeling, and the ceiling was damp and warped.

'Shoes...' John said, and as Sherlock walked towards them, 'he's a bomber, remember.'

Sherlock hesitated, staring still at the shoes. Florence stayed at the door, fearing she'd get in the way of his investigation. She watched from behind him as he began to walk around them, then bending down to look at them closer.

The whole room started as a phone started wringing, and Florence was surprised to feel her pocket vibrating. She got out the phone she forgot she had, as Sherlock looked at her pointedly.

'Blocked number,' she said. 'I don't have anyone's numbers besides...' she glanced at Lestrade, remembering he was there, and not saying anymore. 'I have not given my number to anyone, either.'

'Answer it.' he said, and she frowned.

'But, Sherlock-'

'Answer it, Florence.'

Still staring at him, she pressed the answer button and then the speaker button.

'Hello?' she said softly, and her brow furrowed as breathing from the other end sounded like they were either crying or in pain.

'H...' it was a woman's voice, and it was shaking. She was crying. 'Hello... sexy.' Florence looked up at Sherlock, her eyes scared. Sherlock snatched the phone from her hand and brought it to his mouth.

'Who is this?' he asked, his voice calm.

'I've sent you... a little puzzle,' the woman said slowly, her voice quivering in fear. She breathed in shakily. 'Just to say... hi.'

'Who's talking?' Sherlock said urgently. 'Why are you crying?'

'I'm not... crying,' the voice said, and Sherlock scowled. 'I'm typing. And this stupid bitch...' - she sniffled again, and her sobs were audible – 'is reading it out.'

'The curtain rises.' Sherlock said quietly.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'No, what did you mean?'

Sherlock turned his head slightly towards the rest of the group, as he had turned around to face the wall. 'I've been expecting this for some time.'

'You have twelve hours,' the woman sobbed, 'to solve... my puzzle, Sherlock, or I'm going to be... so naughty.'

The phone line cut off immediately after that, and Sherlock turned to face the group, a concerned expression on his face.

'What was that?' Florence asked, holding her hand out for her phone. Sherlock glared at her, and put her phone in her pocket. Her hand crept slowly back to her side.

'The next step in the game.' Sherlock said darkly.

* * *

**Oh dear, I didn't see quite how short this one is. Sorry. **

**'Till next time!**


	5. Chapter5

**Here we are again! **

**I'm loving this. **

**Most unfortunately, all the chapters are short :(**

**Purely because they all end at certain points (not that you don't know what happens, anyway)**

**Anyway, enjoy :))**

* * *

Not thirty minutes later, Sherlock, John and Watson were sitting in the lab of St. Bartholemew's. The detective was inspecting the shoes – their laces, their sole, the inside. He had collected samples, and was looking at them through the microscope sitting on the bench. Florene was sitting near him, staring at her hands in her lap. John was pacing the room, the noise from his own shoes causing an irritating _clack_ that was beginning to annoy Florence. He eventually stopped to speak.

'So, who do you think it was?'

'Hm?' Sherlock replied, his mind obviously preoccupied. His phone chimed, notifying him of a text. He ignored it.

'The woman on the phone. The crying woman.' John said, beginning to walk again.

'Oh, she doesn't matter – she's just a hostage. No lead there.' Sherlock said, and Florence made a face.

'For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads.' John muttered.

'You're not going to be much use to her.' Sherlock replied, and Florence rolled her eyes. He gave her a look, before his attention turned to the screen connected to the microscope. It flashed with 'no match'. Sherlock felt a stab of annoyance.

'Are they trying to trace the call?' John asked.

'One was too smart for that.' His phone bleeped again. 'pass me my phone.'

'Where is it?'

'Jacket.' The screen connected to the microscope continued to flash with the 'no match', and John gave Sherlock a look that could kill. He stalked pointedly over to Sherlock, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder before reaching in front of him to his jacket pocket. Sherlock frowned in aggravation. 'Careful!'

'Text from your brother.'

'Delete it.'

'Delete it?'

'Missile plans are out of the country now, nothing we can do about it.' Sherlock muttered, not looking up from his microscope. Florence marvelled at his concentration skills, then remembered what he was like when he was younger. The very memories agitated her.

'Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times. Must be important.'

'What does it say?'

'"Any progress on Andrew West's death? Mycroft".'

'If it's so important, why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?' Sherlock looked up from his microscope.

'His what?'

'Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look. Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, then got his head smashed in for his pains.' Florence winced. 'End of story.'

'I'm sure it's a bit sadder than that.' Florence muttered, and Sherlock cracked a _very_ slight smile as John glared at her.

'The only mystery is this. Why is my brother so determined to bore me whens somebody else is so delightfully interesting?'

'Sherlock,' Florence said, her voice frustrated. 'A woman might die for your amusement.'

'What for, though, really? There's hospitals full of people dying. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside? See what good it does them.' Sherlock snapped, and John turned away in disbelief. Florence stared at him, her eyes suddenly ablaze with the same anger he saw in the hospital room when he had yelled at her.

'It would show them someone cared.' she said quietly. 'which is more than my mother had.'

John looked at her, his eyes suddenly sad, and his expression understanding. Sherlock's face softened, and he turned back to the microscope just as the screen bleeped loudly.

'Ah!' he exclaimed, just as the door flew open and Molly Hooper rushed in.

'Any luck?' she said enthusiastically, before noticing Florence sitting quietly opposite Sherlock. She frowned slightly, but Sherlock was answering.

'Oh, yes.' he said excitedly, and Molly walked over to look.

'Oh, sorry.' a different voice said, and a man walked in after Molly. 'I didn't...'

'Jim!' Molly cried, and she laughed nervously. 'Hi! Come in, come in.' Florence watched Sherlock carefully as his gaze turned from the man at the door back to his microscope. He was clearly uninterested. 'Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.'

'Ah!' Jim said, and he had quite the skip in his step as he walked over.

'And, uh...' she paused, looking at John. 'Sorry.'

He sighed. 'John Watson. Hi.' he didn't meet either of their eyes.

Sherlock looked over at Florence, his mouth creeping towards his right eye in a smile the others couldn't see. She grinned back at him, and Molly noticed.

'And, ah, who's this?' she said awkwardly, taking Sherlock by surprise.

'Oh! Molly, this is Florence Wood. Remember, you helped in her case?'

'Oh. Oh, dear God.' Molly said, her expression turning wondrous. 'Hi!'

'Hi,' Florence said, her smile kind. 'Thank you for... you know.'

'Yeah.'

'So you're Sherlock Holmes.' Jim said. His voice was light, and somewhat breathy. John sighed again. 'Molly's told me all about you. You on one of you cases?'

Sherlock ignored him pointedly as Jim walked around him.

'Jim works in I.T, upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance.' Molly said, her hands fumbling. Florence cringed internally as they both giggled.

Sherlock looked up at Jim for the first time, properly. 'Gay.' he muttered, quietly.

'Sorry, what?' Molly said, her face falling.

'Nothing. Um,' Sherlock said, and Florence closed her eyes in frustration. 'Hey.'

'Hey.' Jim said smoothly, as he dropped a clattering metal bowl onto the floor. He apologised nervously, and Sherlock looked up, rolling his eyes. Florence bit her lip, and John turned away, bringing his hand up to his forehead.

'Well.' Jim said, as if nothing had happened. 'I'd better be off.' he looked at Molly, and smiled. 'I'll see you at the Fox. About six-ish?'

'Yeah.' Molly replied, and Jim bid farewell to the rest of them. His eyes turned to Sherlock, and Florence frowned as he noticed the adoring expression on his face.

'It was nice to meet you.' he said, and Sherlock ignored him. There was silence.

'Uh, you too.' Florence said, and as Jim looked at her, she could have sworn she saw a look of distinct hatred on his face. It flashed for a second, but it was replaced with another quite clearly fake smile. He left, and Florence was secretly glad.

'What do you mean gay?' Molly said, before the door had even closed. 'We're together.'

'And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you.'

'Honestly,' John muttered, so quiet only Florence could see his lips move.

'Two and a half.' Molly said, and she was quite obviously fuming.

'No, three.'

'Sherlock.' John said, a little louder.

'He's. Not. Gay.' Molly snapped. Florence started to stand as she moved slightly closer to him – an instinctive reaction since working with her aggressive friends. People went for them all the time, and she would assist their fights. 'Why do you have to spoil... he's not!' she yelled, and Florence sat again, placing her head in her hands.

'With that level of personal grooming?'

'Because he puts product in his hair? I put product in my hair.' John countered.

'You wash your hair. There's a difference. No, no. tinted eyelashes, clear signs of tourine cream around the front lines, those tired, clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear.'

'His underwear?' Molly whispered, aghast.

'Visible above the waistline, very visible. Very particular brand. That, plus the suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here.' he said, and Florence raised her head in time to see him pull the slip from under the bowl. She placed it back in them as she saw what was happening. 'I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain.'

Molly stared for a moment, and then ran, quite quickly, from the room. Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised she had left, and John prepared himself to say something.

'Charming. Well done.' He muttered, and Florence pulled another face in disbelief.

'Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?'

'Kinder? No, Sherlock. That wasn't kind.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and placed the slip of paper Jim had left him down. He moved the trainer closer towards John, and the man stared at it. 'Go on, then.' he said.

'Mmm?' John asked, raising his eyebrow. Florence raised herself so she could see properly.

'You know what I do. Off you go.' He sat back, and after what must have been .3 of a second, he looked impatient.

'No.'

'Right. Florence?'

'Hm?' she said, looking up at him innocently.

'Oh, for God's sake. Deduce the fucking shoe.'

'What?' she glanced down. 'Oh. Right. Uh,' she said, and she stood on the bar between the legs of the chair and looked at the shoe. 'It's a trainer.' She held her hand out, and Sherlock passed it to her. 'Good condition. The sole, however, has been significantly worn. The owner liked 'em. He cleaned them all the time, judging by the white colour.'

'He?'

'Mhm. It's possible a woman would wear these, but let's give them the benefit of the doubt and just say he. Also, they look like they come from the mid-eighties, if my three years in that era remember. Also, the size. Women can have big feet, but somewhat rarely, so I'd say a man.' she looked at Sherlock, who began to speak, before she interrupted him. '_However_,' she said, and Sherlock sighed in annoyance. 'the inside shows it's been written on. Probably a name, indicating a young person wore these.'

Sherlock nodded in approval, but it seemed Florence was feeling extremely cocky today. 'The interior sole is worn in certain places, so the foot-arch-thingy-' John winced, '-was small.'

'Foot-arch-thingy?' he said, raising his eyebrows at the girl who was now grinning. She nodded.

'I'm sorry. I didn't know if the "foot arch" was the right term.'

'It was.'

'Anything else?' Sherlock said, his voice growing impatient. Florence looked at the shoe, and recoiled in disgust.

'Is that fucking skin?' she exclaimed, and Sherlock grinned before reaching over and taking the shoe from her.

'What does that suggest?'

'I don't know, eczema? Maybe? I know I had it, but I didn't remember my skin flaking off like that.'

'Because you put so much cream on it the skin _couldn't_ come off.' Sherlock answered, smirking. 'Right. Yes. Good. Well done. Failed to notice, however, that they are British made. Twenty-two years old.'

John raised his head. 'Twenty-two?'

'They're not retro – they're original.' he looked something up on his phone, and showed a picture to them both. 'Limited edition: two blue stripes, nineteen-eighty-nine.'

'But there's mud still on them. They look new.'

'Someone's tried very hard to keep them that way. There's a lot of mud on these shoes. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it.'

'How do you know?'

Sherlock nodded pointedly towards the computer screen. 'Pollen. Clear as a map to me. South of the river, too. So, the whoever owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty-two years ago and left them behind.'

'What happened to him?' Florence asked, frowning.

'Something bad. He _loved_ these shoes, remember. They were always clean. Wouldn't let them go unless he _had_ to. So, a child with big feet gets...' he trailed off, and his expression turned black. 'Oh.'

'What?'

'Carl Powers.'

'Who?' John asked, but it had already clicked inside Florence's head.

'Carl Powers, John. It's where I began.'

* * *

**Fantastique!**

**I'm so excited by this. I know I shouldn't be, because it's not actually my creation (Florence, Arthur, Michael and James are!), but I love it regardless. **

**'Till next time, cheerio!**


	6. Chapter6

**I loved that last chapter. It was so interesting to write, the relationship between Sherlock and Flo, it's really interesting.**

**I hope you like this one, but I must point out a mild trigger warning. Perhaps not so mild. I'm not sure, but if it affects you, I'm sorry. **

* * *

_The first time Sherlock ever heard Florence sing was at her mother's funeral. When she sang, the entire church fell silent. The cold, grey slabs lining the walls and floor set the mood, and black-clad guests sat uniformly in the pews, listened to her noise. _

_Mrs Wood didn't have many friends. One could argue that she had none, and that everyone who was there, was there for Florence. The girl who had lost everything. _

_ Even the pigeons that were roosting in the roof stopped stopped their singing. She sung a song she had written for the occasion, a haunting melody that echoed around the room. _

_It spoke of a pain that was dull at first, but got worse over time. It spoke of a loneliness that made Sherlock feel bad – she surely wasn't _that_ lonely if she had him? He pushed those thoughts aside. They were selfish. _

_Her voice... _

_It haunted him._

* * *

_6 hours remaining-_

'Nineteen-eighty-nine. A young kid – a champion swimmer – came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament. Drowned in the pool. Tragic accident.'

They were all sitting in the back of a taxi, on the way to Baker Street. He had the newspaper clipping on his phone, and he was showing it to John, who was sitting opposite him.

'You wouldn't remember it. Why should you?'

'But _you_ remember.'

'Yes.'

'Something fishy about it?'

'Nobody thought so, except me. I was six or seven. I read about it in the papers.'

'Started young, didn't you?'

'The boy – Carl Powers – had some sort of fit in the water. However, by the time they got him out, it was too late. There was something wrong – something I couldn't get out of my head. His shoes – they weren't there. I made a fuss, tried to get the police involved, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left the rest of his clothes in the locker, but there was no sign of his shoes,' he reached towards the plastic evidence bag containing the trainers and looked at them. 'until now.'

* * *

_5 hours remaining-_

'Can I help?' John asked, sliding the slidey doors from the living room to the kitchen open. Sherlock was sitting at the table, Florence opposite him, and they were both looking through pictures and newspaper articles about Carl Powers' death. Sherlock ignored him, and Florence looked up at him, acknowlidging his presence.

'I want to help. There's only five hours left.'

'Shit, really?' Florence said, just as John's phone notified him of a text. He read it and sighed.

'It's your brother. He's texting _me_ now.' he frowned, realising something. 'how did he get my number?'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 'Must be a root canal.' he muttered, and Florence snickered.

'He did say "national importance".'

'How quaint.' Sherlock said, snorting.

'What is?'

'You are. Queen and country.'

'You can't just ignore it.'

'I'm not. Putting my best man onto it right now.'

'Good.' John folded his arms, and nodded, as if satisfied with Sherlock's conclusion. 'Who?'

* * *

_3 hours remaining-_

'Hello, dear.' Mrs Hudson greeted Florence kindly as she came up the stairs with a tray in her hands. On it were three mugs, and she placed them carefully on the table. Florence smiled in thanks, warmed by the fact that someone had made her a drink. 'How's all this going?'

'Okay, I think. We're running out of time, but I think he's nearly got it...'

'Poison.' Sherlock said, looking up from a microscope on the kitchen table.

'What _are_ you going on about?' the older woman said, and Sherlock brought his hand down on the table, hard. The contents of the mugs wobbled.

'Clostridium botulinum!' he yelled. Mrs Hudson winced and ran from the room. Florence stared after her, and John came into the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about. 'It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!' he continued, and they both stared at him. 'Carl Powers!'

'He was murdered?' Florence asked, moving forward in a way that caused her hair to fall over her face. She tucked it back idly.

'Remember the laces? The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing to slip the poison into his medication. Two hours after he comes to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns.'

'Wouldn't the autopsy pick that up?'

'No,' Florence said, her expression thoughtful. 'I remember this one. It's practically undetectable. No one would have looked for it.'

Sherlock nodded and walked over to his laptop was sitting. He opened his website – the Science of Deduction – and typed a message into the forum: 'FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989)'.

'There were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet.' he said, continuing to type: 'Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.'

'That's why they had to go.'

'The killer kept the shoes all these years.' John said.

'Yes.' Sherlock looked up at John. 'Meaning...'

'He's our bomber.'

Florence's phone buzzed from within Sherlock's front pocket, and he got it out triumphantly. 'Well done, you.' the sobbing woman said, her voice anguished. 'come and get me.'

* * *

'What I don't get,' John said aimlessly after they had been made aware of the woman's safety. 'is why the bomber gave us the pink phone, but called Florence's?'

'They gave it to you?' Florence said. Sherlock realised he had neglected to tell her about the meeting at Scotland Yard with Lestrade, earlier that morning.

'Mhm. In an envelope. It showed us the basement, and luckily I'd seen it before, otherwise we would have been absolutely lost.'

'So he gave you the phone, all set up and shit, and called me?' Florence asked, picking up her phone and inspecting it.

'Perhaps he thought it to be more fun.' Sherlock said, and John nodded in agreement.

'More fun? To call a different phone?'

'You'd be surprised.' Sherlock replied, his voice casual. Florence shuddered as she realised the implications of what he had just said.

'Psychopath?'

'Low-functioning.' Sherlock said, and his grimace turned into a grin. Florence covered her mouth as she turned away to laugh, and John's gaze flickered between them in confusion.

'Inside joke?'

'Something like that.'

* * *

Later that evening, the news spoke of Florence's re-appearance. She watched it, scowling as they depicted her as a 'mindless drug addict' who 'left in a state and didn't come home'. They spoke of her disappearance as an 'act of depression, following her mother's tragic suicide'. Her brow furrowed further. John, seeing her state of annoyance, reached over to get the remote and switched the television to a different channel. He watched with satisfaction as her facial muscles relaxed and she nodded at him in thanks.

'Food?' he asked no one in particular, and Florence shook her head, still staring at the television screen. The look in her eyes had turned to something else – not anger, but a sort of sadness. Sherlock ignored him.

* * *

John had been to Tesco's, up the road, to buy Florence a toothbrush, and some shower cream. She had accepted graciously, as she hadn't thought about any of that. He had also offered her his room, but she had declined, saying she was absolutely fine on the sofa, which was the second choice.

She waited until Sherlock had gone to bed, and John was in his room, before slipping off the armchair and scuttling off to the bathroom. She was as quiet as a mouse, and in the time it took for her to realise what she was doing, where she was, who she was living with, she was leaning over the toilet bowl, the contents of her stomach wretched from her body in violent spasms.

She leaned against the wall, her knees bent and her elbows resting on them, thankful her friend was asleep, as he was only in the room next to her. She pulled her hair back from her face, and allowed the tears to flow. She was scared. She was alone. She couldn't call Sherlock for help – how would he receive it? He might have been angry at the behaviour. He didn't seem like the Sherlock she used to know.

That thought made her cry more, and as she wept in the little bathroom of 221B Baker Street, she thought that she might as well die. There was nothing for her here. Sherlock was different, she was sleeping on the couch of someone who she now considered a stranger, Arthur, James and Michael were gone, and she was alone.

How she yearned for their drugs. They were so sweet, and they made her forget everything. That is what she missed. That's what she wanted back.

She stood and flushed the toilet. As she watched the contents disappear, her hands were shaking. She stumbled to the sink, leaned against it. She was still shaking. She looked around desperately for anything to cut herself with. Anything. In her head, she was screaming. She wanted salvation. She wanted peace.

A mirror was placed above the sink, and there was a full length one on the opposite side of the room. She rushed over to it, grabbing a chair with a small hand towel on it as she went. She lifted the chair over her head, ready to bring it down onto the mirror, when she caught sight of her reflection.

She hadn't seen herself in four years. There were no mirrors at the Warehouse, and she hadn't really been anywhere else.

She dropped the chair and walked slowly towards the mirror. It was a tall one, and it showed her whole body. She reached out to touch it, causing the real and virtual fingers to touch. She wasn't certain it was really her.

Her cheeks were gaunter than they had been before, showing protruding cheekbones and hollow cheeks. Her lips were dry and cracked, and thin – thinner than she remembered. _She_ was thinner than she remembered. She looked strange without her fringe, and her eyes were too big. Her nose felt weird.

She looked, and felt, so out of proportion it distracted her for a full three minutes, which is the time it took for Sherlock to find her.

* * *

**Oooof. if this has affect on someone, I'm sorry, and I'm always open to talk. Writing her character is quite difficult, even though I haven't experienced anything she's experienced before. **

**Anyway, until next time ;)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Who knows if that last scene was as heartbreaking to read as it was to write. **

**More emotions now. ;)**

* * *

Sherlock was mildly shocked as he opened the bathroom door to see her kneeling in front of the mirror, her hand pressed against it with a look of awe on her face. He had heard some sort of commotion, and was puzzled to find the door open. Her cheeks were lined with tears, and she must have accidentally cut herself, because her hand was bleeding slightly.

He surveyed the room quickly. _The chair has been knocked over, but it's been moved. It's slightly broken – she must have cut her hand on it. It was dropped relatively near to where she is kneeling – the mirror; the only thing that could be sharp in this room. She had a breakdown. She wanted to cut, fatally or just harmfully. _

Upon this realisation, Sherlock moved over to her, put his hands under her arms and gently pulled her up. Her hand found his and she clung to it tightly, her eyes not moving from her reflection. He noticed John standing at the doorway, his expression concerned. He nodded – he had it under control – and John nodded back. He stayed where he was, however – he was the doctor, he knew what to do.

Fully aware that what he was doing went against every aspect of his personality, Sherlock guided Florence over to the chair, used one hand to turn it upright, and sat her gently on it.

'What's wrong with me, Sherlock?' she said eventually, pulling the hair from her face. It appeared she had snapped back into reality.

'I don't know.' he said gravely. 'Was it a breakdown?'

'I think so. It's strange. I never had them when I was living in the Warehouse, but I had them before, when I was with you. Now, though...'

'What triggered it?' John asked from the doorway. He walked into the room. It was now getting a bit crowded.

Florence cast her eyes down. Should she tell them about the paranoia?

'Flo,' Sherlock prompted.

'I panicked. I threw up, then my thought process began spiralling and I couldn't stop it. I tried to smash the mirror to...' she paused, wondering if she had gone too far.

'Carry on,' John encouraged.

'I tried to smash the mirror so I could use the shards to slit my wrists.'

* * *

Sherlock was angry. He was angry at Florence, for thinking he didn't love her nearly as much as he had before she had gone. He was angry at her for leaving, for not coming back for eight whole years, causing him to relapse back into his drug phase. He was angry at John, who had done absolutely nothing wrong. But, mainly, he was angry at himself, for leaving her alone so soon. He shouldn't have left her, even if it was just to go to his room.

'Sherlock.' John said, in an attempt to console him.

'Shut _up_, John.' he said, his voice not showing a hint of his emotion.

'Come on, Sherlock. You're pissed.'

'We leave her alone for an hour. _An hour_, John!'

'So you're not angry with her?'

'Yes. I am. But not nearly as angry as I am with myself.'

'That isn't fair, Sherlock.' John coaxed. He wanted the truth out of his roommate. He wanted him to admit he was in love with Florence Wood.

'Why did we do that? We knew she was fragile. I know what she's been through. That must have been enough for me to know. I shouldn't have had to learn.

'What do you propose we do about her?'

'Leaving her alone is out of the question. I've just got her back – there is no way I'm losing her again.'

* * *

The next morning, Florence found herself in an office in Scotland Yard – the office belonging to the man who had found her. Lestrade had nodded at her when she got in, and she smiled shyly back.

'She lives in Cornwall. Two men entered her home, wearing masks. Forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house, and phone you. He had her read out from this pager.' He placed it on the desk in front of John, who was sitting opposite him. He took it and inspected it idly.

Sherlock was pacing the room, hands by his mouth – he was thinking. Florence sat out of the way, on a chair near the door.

'And if she deviated by one word...' he said, and Florence grimaced. 'the sniper would shoot and set the whole thing off.'

'Or if you hadn't solved the case.' John said, and Sherlock sighed wistfully.

'Oh, elegant.'

John sighed, frustrated. 'Elegant?'

Lestrade's face contorted in confusion. 'What was the point? Why would anyone do this?'

'Oh,' Sherlock muttered, facing away from them. 'I can't be the only person in the world who gets bored.' his mind flashed back to day before last, where he had spray painted a smiley face on the wall and began shooting it aimlessly with a pistol. He recalled John's anger, and Mrs Hudson's astonishment, and smiled slightly to himself.

The phone in his pocket notified him of a message, and he found himself pulling the pink phone out rather than Florence's. He opened it, aware of all eyes on him.

Three short blips and a long beep sounded from the phone, and Sherlock walked back over to the desk as John's face fell. Florence frowned in confusion.

'Four pips. Next up.' Sherlock said, and showed the picture on the phone to Lestrade, then to John. 'Abandoned car?'

'I'll see if it's been reported,' Lestrade said, just as Sally Donovan opened the door, hitting Florence's leg. She withdrew it in pain, and Sally looked down at her.

'Oh, sorry.' she frowned as she studied her face a little more. 'I know you, don't I?'

'Donovan?' Sherlock asked as Florence turned her head away.

'Ah. Freak, there's a phone call for you.' she sounded surprised, as if no one would ever think of calling him ever. Sherlock walked over to her and took it, following her out of the room.

'Hello?' he said.

'It's okay, that you've gone to the police.' the voice was male again, and it sounded less hysterical than before, but still anxious and upset.

'Who is this? Is it you again?'

'Don't rely on them.' the voice said, quivering. 'Clever you. Guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing.'

'You've stolen another voice, I presume?' Sherlock asked, aware of Florence walking up to him from behind. He ignored her presence.

'This is about you and me.' the voice said, and it was clear he was crying. Hard. He was terrified.

'Who are you.' it wasn't a question, it was a demand. Sherlock was demanding him to answer. Alas, he did not. 'What's that noise..?' he asked, as he became aware of the sounds of traffic from the other side of the line.

'The sound of life, Sherlock. But don't worry,' the voice became more panicked, breathing heavier as he read it out. 'I can soon fix that.' his voice broke in fear. 'You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. But this time, you have eight.'

Sherlock's gaze shifted around the room, taking in what he had just said. The line went dead just as Lestrade yelled from the next room – 'we've found it!'

* * *

**I'm so sorry, this one is absolutely tiny! I'm ashamed at how short these are - but I hope they're keeping you interested :P**

**Unpopular opinion: this next leg in the game is my least favourite. It is the most boring, I think. **

**I'm so so so looking forward to the pool! It was my favourite scene to write, absolutely ever. **

**Until next time :) **

**-H**


	8. Chapter 8

_'Sixteen.' Florence breathed, gazing at the large birthday badge that Sherlock had jokingly bought her in her hand. 'How the fuck did I make it this far?'_

_Sherlock grinned. 'A stroke of luck.'_

_Florence laughed sarcastically. 'What luck?'_

_Sherlock gazed at her, his smile fading slowly. She looked back at him, her eyebrows raised. 'Happy birthday, Flo.'_

* * *

Florence breathed in the semi-fresh air of the riverbank, where the car had been abandoned. She grimaced at the smell – mud, and rot – a lot of rot – mixed with the sickly smell of pollution.

The car itself had been found in a large, concrete-floored open space that apparently served no purpose but to look ugly.

'The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford. Banker of some kind. City boy. Paid in cash.' Lestrade was explaining, but Florence had already zoned out. She was staring at the interior of the car – covered in fresh, deep red blood. Her eyes closed in disgust, and her stomach dropped. She was never one for being queasy, but now, considering the consequences, the very sight of the liquid made her want to throw up.

'Before you ask – yes – it's Monkford's blood. The DNA checks out.'

'No body.' Sherlock said, and he sounded disappointed.

'Not yet.'

'Get a sample sent to the lab.' Sherlock muttered, and to Florence he breathed: 'go to the woman over there. Use your somewhat feminine friendliness to get some answers from her. You remember how we used to?'

Florence nodded and walked slowly over to the woman, who was sniffling into a tissue. 'Mrs Monkford?' she muttered, and the woman turned to her, and sighed. 'I've already spoken to two policemen today.'

'I'm not from the police.' she said, and her voice was soft. 'I'm here to see if you're okay.'

Mrs Monkford smiled sadly. 'I'm as okay as expected. He had been depressed for months. I was beginning to think he'd do something like this, but not this...' her face crumpled, and her hand went to her face again. From the corner of her eye, Florence saw Sherlock glaring at her.

'Why do you think he hired the car?'

'Are you sure you're not from the police?'

'Quite sure.'

'He said he was going on a business trip. He didn't ever get there, apparently.'

'Isn't it suspicious he _hired_ a car?' Florence asked, fully aware that she was making an enemy. She didn't care.

'No,' she said, her voice growing harder. 'it isn't. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all.'

'Was he like that? Did he usually forget to renew taxes?'

'No, he wasn't like that.'

'Wasn't he? Interesting.' Florence said, her face growing bored. She walked away, towards Sherlock, who was walking with John away from the scene.

'Report?'

'Referred to him in past tense.'

'Excellent. Thank you.'

'Am I missing something?' John asked, glancing at Florence with mild resent in his eyes. She frowned slightly and looked away.

'It's a bit early to start referring to your potentially dead husband in past tense – they'd only just found the car.' Sherlock answered, not having noticed the interaction between his two friends.

'You think she murdered him?'

'No. Definitely not. A murderer would not make a stupid mistake like that.'

'Ah, I see.' then he stopped and frowned. 'no, I don't. What am I seeing?'

Donovan, from behind them, yelled something entirely random at them, and John turned around and nodded at her, obviously tired of the conversation.

'Janus Cars.' Sherlock said, ignoring Donovan completely. He handed the business card to Florence, and she inspected it carefully before handing it to John. 'I found this in the glove compartment.'

* * *

_'Sherlock, would you say, if you were different, that I'm... okay looking?' Florence asked, playing aimlessly with her hair. They were laying on the grass of the local park. Sherlock had just finished his second year at college. Florence had just finished high school. _

_Sherlock frowned. 'Where has this come from?'_

_'I'm curious.' _

_'I wouldn't rule it out as a possibility. If I was different.' _

_'Hmmm.' _

_'Aren't you going to ask what _I_ think?' _

_'As you?'_

_'Yes.'_

_She laughed slightly. 'Okay. What do you think?'_

_'I think you're good looking.' he said, smirking. Florence rolled over onto her stomach and looked at him. He looked down at her, his blue eyes shining. _

_'Really?'_

_'Yes.'_

_'You didn't just say that because you want me to tell you why I said it?'_

_'No. But can you tell me regardless?' She laughed again, and rolled onto her back. _

_'Someone told me I was pretty. I wanted to know if they were flirting or not.' _

_'Oh? What else did he say?'_

_She rolled over again, her eyes glinting in amusement. '_She_ said I had eyes like emeralds, and a voice that could reach the charts one day.' _

_'I don't doubt that.' Sherlock said, his lips creeping into a smile. 'Oh, and she's definitely flirting.'_

_'Good to know.'_

* * *

Florence rested her head against the cab window. The car vibrated, and it made her head feel strange, but she felt so ill, her head wouldn't support itself. She was vaguely aware of the two men talking to each other, and was glad they didn't notice as she closed her eyes.

She wondered why she felt ill. She hadn't eaten anything strange in the past few days, she hadn't taken anything – but her head just felt so heavy... she wanted to sleep...

Then the men's voices, the rocking of the car, and the world blacked out entirely.

'Even if we found the body before the timer went off...' Sherlock was saying, mainly to himself.

'Sherlock,' John said, staring at the girl with her head on the window, her eyes closed, and her breathing a little too slow. When the detective kept talking, John repeated.

'What?'

John nodded in her direction pointedly, and Sherlock turned to face her. His face grew softer as he watched her sleep, but then he frowned.

'Something's wrong.' he said, and took her pulse. 'Heart rate is varying. Slower, faster, even faster, slower again. She's sleeping fitfully.' he tried waking her with a gentle shake on the shoulder, then he got rougher. 'she's not waking up. She's been drugged.'

* * *

_The street seemed to dance as Florence stumbled through it. The lights looked around seven times brighter, and everything seemed closer one second, then further away the next. _

_That was _definitely _the wrong pill. What she was given was apparently just cocaine – she had crushed it hungrily, without looking at what it was. _

_She was scared. Her heart was beating too loud, it hurt her head. She fell into the wall, willing herself to throw up. She felt so ill, she wished for it to be over. _

_She found herself in a long, dark alley, and something in her mind told her to get out. She heard the men coming before they got there, and suddenly she was engulfed in pain._

* * *

**:)**


	9. Chapter 9

Florence woke abruptly, as if she had been pulled out of a body of cold, dark water. She gasped a little, wondering where she was, before realising she was on the sofa, underneath the yellow smiley face on the wall she knew to be 221B's. She breathed a small sigh of relief, before sitting up and looking around her.

Sherlock was pacing the room, hands on his lips in his praying position. John was nowhere to be seen, but she could hear the kettle boiling, so she presumed he was in there.

'What happened at Janus Cars?' she said, and was surprised when her voice sounded hoarse. She cleared her throat, and Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and looked down at her. His face relaxed for a second – he was relieved she had woken up.

'The man – Mister Ewert – he was an obvious liar. He had been away, to Columbia, where he had taken Monkford to relocate. I also went to the lab, analysed the blood, and found out that it had been frozen – so Monkford had donated it, exactly a litre, which was found in the car – a stupid mistake on the bomber's behalf. Basically, we solved it.'

'How long was I out for?'

'About seven hours. You were drugged.'

'I noticed.' she swung her legs over the side and stood. She swayed slightly, and Sherlock stepped towards her, ready to catch her if necessary. It was not. 'Anything else happened?'

'The messenger is fine. He was in Piccadilly Circus, decked out in so many explosives the coat he was wearing bulged. I'm surprised he wasn't noticed before. If you're talking about the phone, nothing's come up yet.'

'I'm still puzzled as to why he gave you the pink phone if he's not going to use it.'

'I'm pretty sure it's just a case of, he found something better. Psychopaths work that way.' he said, and Florence fixed him with a look that said 'good thing you're not one of them' in a sarcastic manner. He rolled his eyes at her. 'How do you feel?'

'Sick.'

'Do you want anything?'

'Not to be sick.'

'Helpful. Tea?' Florence shook her head, and sat down again. She fell asleep promptly, and slept through to the morning.

* * *

'Must you do that?' Florence growled at Sherlock as he drummed his fingers impatiently on the table of a greasy spoon café. 'My head is actually beating.'

'Is that possible?' Sherlock asked mockingly. He stopped drumming.

'Forgive my phrases, Sherlock, I'm not all there.'

'That you aren't.' he stared down at the phone in the middle of the table, willing it to ring, as John ate a large cooked breakfast that, in Florence's opinion, smelled disgusting.

'It's like I'm hungover.' she said, and her head fell into her hands.

'Maybe you're just unwell.' John said, and knew immediately that that was not the case, remembering she had been drugged. 'I wonder what was in that drug.'

'I recognise the effect – it was a strong sedative. I've become almost immune to them – they can knock you out for days on end. Arthur used to... acquire them. I think he made them, or Michael did, or James. One of them. They only used them on me when I had some sort of hysterical fit. Even then, they asked my permission. They never told me about their drugs, just that they delivered them, which is what I did.'

'You were a drug runner?' John asked, aghast. She nodded.

'The drug that I had used when I was found – the pretend-dead one. It has a name but I can't remember...' she trailed off, and knocked her fist against her temple, as if it would somehow help. She winced as it got worse. 'fucking hell.'

'Water? Cold water?' John asked, and pushed her glass towards her. She took a tentative sip, and put it down promptly. 'Has it occurred to you-' he began, turning to Sherlock.

'Probably,' the man cut off, and John sighed.

'No – has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the shoes – all meant for you.'

Sherlock smiled slightly. 'yes.'

'Is it him then, Moriarty?'

'Perhaps.'

The phone in front of them beeped, and Sherlock snatched it before Florence could. She scowled at him. 'I do have people trying to contact me, you know.'

'Unwise of them,' Sherlock said dismissively before opening the phone. Two short pips sounded before a long one, and a photograph of a woman flashed up on the screen.

'That could be anybody.' Sherlock said, disgruntled. Florence smirked, and looked at John.

'Well,' he began, sharing Florence's joke. 'it _could_ be, yeah. Except it isn't. Lucky for you, I've been a more than a little unemployed.'

'How do you mean?' Sherlock asked, frowning.

'Mrs Hudson and I watch far too much telly.' John said, and he stood to change the channel of the television above the counter of the café. One of the makeover shows that Florence steered well clear of popped up on the screen, and the woman depicted in the photograph was hosting it.

The phone rang in Sherlock's hand, and he answered it quickly. 'Hello?'

'This one is a bit... defective. Sorry.' a trembling voice from the other end of the line. 'She's blind. This is... a funny one.'

Florence stared at the phone, her mouth opening in shock. '_She's old_!' she hissed, and Sherlock nodded, putting a finger to his lips. John walked back to the table, frowning in concern.

'I'll give you... twelve hours...' the woman said, and she gasped in fear.

'Why are you doing this?' Sherlock growled, and Florence winced in pain.

'I like... to watch you... dance.' she gasped again, and the line went dead.

Sherlock looked at John, surprise on his face.

'She's dead.' Florence said, looking at the TV screen with a look of dread. 'She's fucking dead, Sherlock.'

* * *

_Florence knew she was distancing herself from her best friend, and it was visibly affecting him. _

_He was acting a little quieter around her, not wanting to see her as much, but what stung the most was how he was treating her with caution. _

_She was so relaxed around him, at all times. For her to potentially lose this rock, the only person she could be herself around, it was causing her to spiral. _

_And, of course, he didn't see any of that. He just presumed she didn't want to spend time with her, so he didn't try to pressure her. It made perfect sense to Florence, but it still hurt. _

_Hurt like absolute Hell. _

* * *

'Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those makeover shows on the telly. Did you see it?' Lestrade was saying as they leaned over the pale corpse of the woman from the TV.

'No.' Sherlock said.

'Very popular. She was going places.'

'Not anymore.' Sherlock replied, and Lestrade sighed. 'So: dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound.' He inspected at the wound on her hand, and John looked down at it. Florence looked, then looked away in disgust. 'Tetanus bacteria enters bloodstream – goodnight Vienna.'

'I suppose'

'Something's wrong with the picture. It can't be as simple as it seems, otherwise the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong.' He looked at the body closer. He ran his gaze up her arm, and settled on some claw marks on her upper arm. He then spied her face, where pinpricks donned her forehead.

'John?'

'Mm?'

'The cut on her hand – it's deep – would have bled a lot, right?'

'Yeah.'

'But the wound's clean – _very_ clean, and fresh.' Sherlock said, and smirked slightly as Florence gagged from the corner. 'How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?'

'Eight, ten days?' Sherlock looked at him pointedly. 'The cut was made later.'

'After she was dead?' Lestrade asked, shocked. He obviously didn't understand why.

'Must have been. Only question ins, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?'

John looked up and down the body, and Florence averted her gaze. 'You want to help, right?' Sherlock asked him, and he nodded.

'Of course.'

'Connie Prince's background – family history, everything. Give me data.'

'Right.' he left promptly, presumably to go and carry out his task.

'There's something else we haven't thought of.'

'Is there?' Sherlock said, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

'Yes. Why is he doing this, the bomber?' Sherlock looked at Florence, his expression thoughtful. 'If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?'

'Good Samaritan.' Sherlock replied sarcastically, and Florence snickered.

'Who press-gangs suicide bombers?'

'_Bad_ Samaritan.'

'I'm serious, Sherlock. Listen, I'm cutting you some slack here – I'm trusting you. I'm even letting you bring her-' he pointed at Florence but continued to look at him, '-with you. But out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So tell me, what are we dealing with?'

Sherlock smiled slightly, and looked at nothing in particular. He was thinking. 'Something new.'

* * *

:))


	10. Chapter10

_Three Hours Remaining_

'Connection. There must be a connection!' Sherlock growled, pacing in front of the wall, which he had covered with paper clippings, notes and photographs, joined together by pinned string, indicating their connection. Lestrade stood behind him, watching his friend's urgency with some sympathy. Florence had pills in her hand, painkillers. She downed them with a glass of cold water, and winced. 'Carl Powers. Killed twenty years ago. The bomber _knew_ him; admitted that he knew him. The bomber's phone – in stationary from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall, then London, then Yorkshire, by the sounds of her accent. What is he doing? Working his way around the world? Showing off..?'

'He's playing with you, Sherlock. Confusing you.' Florence said, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose in pain.

'Clearly.'

Florence's phone rang from the coffee table in front of her. She reached down, but Sherlock got there before her, fixing her with a glare. He answered it, and switched it to speakerphone.

'You're enjoying this, aren't you? Joining... the dots.' the woman said, her voice trembling as she sobbed. 'Three hours... boom, boom.' she cried out, and the line went dead.

After about an hour of Sherlock saying or doing nothing but staring at the wall in his prayer position, he got his phone out and started talking to someone. This time he didn't put it on speakerphone.

Mrs Hudson appeared with tea, and after she had placed the tray on the coffee table she moved to look closer at the wall.

'Great. Thank you. Thanks again.' Sherlock said into the phone, walking past Florence and towards the fireplace. Her headache had almost cleared, and she could now look at things without every stream of light making her want to sleep.

'It's such a shame.' Mrs Hudson was saying, and Florence listened in on their conversation, stepping towards them. Her arms were crossed over her chest, as the top she was wearing clung to her skin, and she didn't like that much. 'I liked her. She taught you how to do your colours.'

'Colours?' Lestrade asked, turning to look at her.

'You know...' her arm swept downwards in a gesture towards her clothes. 'what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me.'

Sherlock ended his conversation, and Lestrade turned to look at him. 'Who was that?'

'Home Office.' Sherlock said casually.

'Home Office?' Lestrade repeated, surprised.

'Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favour.'

'She was a pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much. They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces. It's silly, isn't it?' she turned to Florence as Lestrade smiled at her awkwardly. 'Don't you go doing that to yourself. Your pretty face doesn't deserve that sort of treatment.' Florence smiled, and laughed slightly at the compliment.

'Don't you worry. I can't stand needles.' she said, and Sherlock frowned slightly at her. She shook her head very slightly.

Mrs Hudson, seemingly unaware of their little communication, turned to Sherlock. 'Did you ever see her show?'

'Not until now.'

He opened his laptop and a video started playing – Connie Prince's makeover show. She was talking to someone – Florence didn't know who – and appeared to be hitting him quite hard on the back as she encouraged him to literally strip.

'That's the brother,' Mrs Hudson said, her smile fading into a look of dislike. 'no love lost there, if you can believe the papers.'

'So I gather. I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who loved the show. Fan sites, indispensable for gossip.' Sherlock said, and they watched as the brother smiled falsely at the audience, as Connie Prince continued to hit him on the back.

Sherlock's phone buzzed quietly in his pocket. Lestrade looked at him, his expression inquisitive. Sherlock got out the phone, and glanced at the caller ID before answering it, shaking his head slightly at Lestrade.

* * *

'John.'

'Hi. Look, get over here quickly. I think I'm onto something. You'll need to pick up some stuff first. You got a pen?'

'I'll remember.'

* * *

Florence had opted out of the next leg of the case. Sherlock had put up a fight, reminding her of her first night, but her head had begun to hurt again, and she was tired. He had grudgingly left, placing her phone, with his number on it, on the coffee table in front of her.

She drifted in and out of sleep, her dreams fitful. She dreamed about her friends – of Arthur, and James, and Michael. She dreamed of their drugs, about how much she wanted them. She dreamed of how much she _missed_ them, but of their anger when she inevitably returned. She abandoned them. She got _scared_, took the drug when she wasn't supposed to and woke up in a different life.

She dreamed about that different life, the _old_ life, the one she had with Sherlock. She dreamed of their adventures – or what they thought were adventures, but were really just cycling around St James' park, or exploring abandoned factories. The factories that she would be living in not four years later, always with that gnawing anxiety that came with being chased.

The only dream she vividly remembered was being alone in a black space. The space didn't really have any boundaries – it was just a lot of space. Her gaze travelled around the space – she was frightened. She didn't like the dark. Not since she was attacked.

She could hear voices, and she ran towards them, as fast as her feet could take her. But, since it was a dream, her mind didn't let her run towards them, and she was running slower than she could walk. She screamed out in frustration, and the voices stopped.

'Florence?' one of them said, and she called back. 'Florence, Florence!' the voices said, their voices becoming more frantic, and closer. She recognised them, but couldn't place them.

The voices got louder and more urgent and suddenly it sounded like they were mere inches from her ears. She spun around, expecting to see a face, but before she could see it she was awoken abruptly.

'Flo?' Sherlock said, his voice gentle. Florence opened her eyes, to see his expression worried. He cracked the tiniest smile. 'I thought you were dead.'

'So instead of checking my pulse like a normal person, you woke me?' Florence smiled slightly and rubbed her eyes with her palms.

'That, and we're about to go over to Scotland Yard, hand this file in, and solve this case. You coming?'

'Yes.'

* * *

'Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince – it was botulinum toxin.' Sherlock placed the file on Lestrade's desk triumphantly, and continued. 'We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut, our bomber's repeating himself.'

'So, how'd he do it?' Lestrade asked, beginning to walk towards his office.

'Botox injection.'

'Botox?'

'Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records for Raoul's internet purchases. He's been bulk ordering Botox for months.'

Florence noticed that John's expression was hardening, and she stared at him, questioningly.

'Bided his time, and upped the strength to a fatal dose.'

'You sure about this?'

'I'm sure.'

'All right. My office.' Lestrade said, and Sherlock began to follow him into his office before John caught his arm to stop him. Florence watched from the side.

'Hey, Sherlock.' he said, and Florence could sense the danger in his voice. 'How long?'

'What?'

'How long have you known?'

'Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said – the bomber repeated himself. _That_ was a mistake.' he moved to walk away again, but this time Florence ran to catch his arm, and pulled him round to face her.

'But the woman, Sherlock!' she exclaimed, her face anguished. 'she's been there the _whole time_. Terrified. Crying her eyes out, for God's sake. Think of the fucking damage that would have caused her – no water, no food – and that constant loss of bodily fluid? All for what, so you can _out-fucking-smart_ the bomber?'

Sherlock's expression hardened, and he leaned in towards her, his eyes boring into her very soul with intensity. 'I _knew_ I could save her.' he growled, but Florence stood her ground. Her eyes turned the same kind of dangerous Sherlock had seen in the hospital, not four days before. 'I also knew that the bomber had given us _twelve_ hours. I solved the case quickly – that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see, Florence? We're one up on him.' he said, and turned swiftly into the office.

* * *

**:)))**


	11. chapter11

"_Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox_." the most recent post on the forum of _The Science of Deduction_ read. Sherlock sat at Lestrade's desk, the two men either side of him, whilst Florence stood by the door. The phone, sitting on the table in front of them, rung almost instantly, and Sherlock picked it up. Florence didn't bother trying to get it from him – he knew it wasn't who she wanted it to be.

'Hello?' he hadn't put it on speakerphone this time, so no one could hear what the woman was saying, only his replies. 'Tell us where you are. Address.' Sherlock's voice took on a hint of panic as he answered the next time. 'No, no, no, no – tell me nothing about him. Nothing.' then his facial expression went slack, presumably as the line went dead. 'Hello ?'

'Sherlock?' Florence asked, stepping closer as she saw his expression.

'What's happened?' John asked, and Sherlock didn't reply – only bit his lip at Lestrade, his face saying everything.

* * *

Florence woke up late the next morning, on the couch in the living room of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock and John sat on the chairs she had come to know as _their_ chairs, and the television was on. They spoke a little bit, unaware of Florence's presence.

'He killed that lady because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line.' Sherlock said, his hands in his prayer position.

'What do you mean?' John answered.

'Well, usually, he must stay above it all. He organises these things, but no one ever has direct contact.'

'What, like the Connie Prince murder? He arranged that? So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?'

Florence couldn't see their faces, but she imagined Sherlock's to be full of wonder as he replied. 'Novel.'

John sighed and looked back at the TV screen. 'Listen, Sherlock,' he said, his voice awkward. 'Florence..'

'Whatever you're going to say, I'll probably disagree.' Sherlock interrupted.

'No, no – listen. Before she came, you were... _you_. The emotionless bastard you always are-'

'Thank you-'

'-but now that she's here, you're different. Towards her, at least. And I don't know what you two... did... before she went missing.'

'She wasn't missing, she was _hiding_.' Sherlock said, a touch of bitterness in his voice. 'And we didn't _do_ anything.'

'You're pissed that she was hiding.'

'I never said that.'

'You didn't have to.'

'Why does it matter to you?'

'Because you're my friend, Sherlock. Friends look out for each other. And I know she hasn't been the best of friends to you. I'm sure what she did was an accident at first, but when she didn't come back for eight years?'

'She said she didn't want me to see her like that.' Sherlock said, and his voice cracked with emotion. Florence frowned, careful to keep her breathing steady. She didn't want him to know she was awake.

'I'm fairly certain she was clean for most of that time, Sherlock-'

'She didn't come home because she thought I'd be upset – disappointed. And she was right.'

'You would have been disappointed with her?'

'No. At myself. For not being good enough, so she thought she had to take drugs to forget about her depression and her mother and everything that happened to her. I wasn't enough. So that's what drove me to drugs, too. It was a little experiment, at first. I wanted to test the effects on someone not addicted, compared to someone that _was_. But I became that someone who was. So goodbye normal Sherlock Holmes, I was suddenly the emotionless bastard.'

'You loved her, didn't you? That's why you were so broken when she left, and why you're acting different now? Because you _love_ her, and always have.'

Sherlock was suddenly angry, but Florence did not want to "wake". She feared he would close up on her if they didn't resolve their little feud on her behalf now. 'Why,' he said in a quiet hiss. 'do you feel the need to presume that because I was "broken" when she left, and why I am "different" now, I was in love with her?'

'I didn't mean-'

'But you _did_. She's broken. She's still broken. I can't help her, and I feel useless. The only thing keeping me going is the thought that when this is all over, I can talk to her again. Get to know her. Because, God help me, we have a lot of catching up to do. Now _please_, can we change the subject? She's still in the room.'

'Fine. I'm sorry.' Sherlock ignored him, and John sighed. 'Anything on the Carl Powers case?'

'Nothing. All living classmates check out spotless. No connection.' Sherlock replied, and it was as if nothing had happened. His voice was perfectly normal.

'Maybe the killer was older than Carl?'

'The thought had occurred.'

'So why's he doing this, then – playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to be caught?'

'I think he wants to be distracted.'

John let out an unamused laugh, and stood. He began to walk towards the kitchen. 'I hope you'll be very happy together.' he muttered.

'Sorry, what?'

Florence could feel another argument coming along, so she decided to wake up.

'What?' she said, and Sherlock turned around and stared at her for a little bit, as if remembering she was there.

'Nothing.'

'Yes, something. There are lives at stake, here, Sherlock – actual, human lives. Just so I know, do you care about that at all?'

'Will caring about them help save them?'

'Nope.'

'Then I'll continue not to make that mistake.'

'And you find that easy, do you?'

'Yes. Very. Is that news to you?'

'No.' John said, and he smiled bitterly. Florence sat up on the sofa, rubbing her neck slightly, worried. 'No.' John repeated, and they stared at each other for a moment, Sherlock reading his friend's emotions.

'I've disappointed you.'

John's smile was still furious as he pointed at him. 'That's good. That's a good deduction – yeah.'

'Come off it, John.' Florence muttered, sensing the danger of the army doctor standing before her. He had seen the wars, and was literally about to unleash all the wars on Sherlock.

'Why, Florence? Because your "best friend" is a cold-hearted, senseless _bitch_?'

'You know better than that.' She replied softly, 'and I know better than that.'

'Do we, though? He's not saving these people because of the fact their lives are on the line. He's solving these cases because he _wants_ to. He's solving them within the deadline because he _wants_ to. To humour him, and the bomber. Not to be a good person. He is no hero.'

'Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.'

'You're damn-fucking-right you aren't.'

'That's enough!' Florence yelled, holding her head in her hands with stress. 'Honestly! You two are not six years old!' She earned a hard glare from both of them, and sighed. 'I'm having a shower. Don't you dare say anything contentious, either of you.'

* * *

Florence only made it halfway up the hall before she felt the tears coming, and had to lean against the wall. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stop the sobs escaping her lips, because she had left the door open. Tears streamed steadily down her cheeks, and she looked up at the ceiling, trying to stop their flow.

She let out a shuddery breath she wasn't aware she had been holding, and it was just loud enough for Sherlock to hear it.

'Florence?' he shouted, but she heard the phone _ping_ and him running up to get it. He ran past the open door, and turned his head just slightly to see her crumpled against the wall. She shook his head slightly at him, and stumbled into the bathroom.

* * *

_'Hey.'_

_Florence opened her eyes, and immediately wished she hadn't. Everywhere hurt. She was fairly certain her arms and one leg were broken, and her torso ached, and her head was throbbing so hard it felt like it had been wacked over the head with a baseball bat. _

_A man was standing over her, whispering for her to awaken. She couldn't make out the face, but she knew it was a man, and it set her heart racing._

_'No!' she screeched, trying to scramble away from him desperately. _

_'Shh, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you.' the man said, his voice barely more than a whisper. 'I'm going to take you somewhere safer.'_

_Florence closed her eyes. She hurt so much, she really didn't care what happened. She wanted to die. She wanted the man to take her away, and murder her. She just wanted darkness, eternal darkness that she could not wake up from. She let him take her._

* * *

'Hey.' Florence said quietly as she walked into the room, towelling her hair dry with a towel Mrs Hudson had given her when she had arrived.

John nodded at her, unaware of her emotional outburst before, but Sherlock's eyes were wide with curiosity and sympathy as he looked up at her. He said nothing, however, and the second John started talking his eyes went hard again, and he looked away.

'Tell her what he sent.' he said, and Sherlock immediately went into his unique explanation-mode.

'We were sent a picture of the South Bank. The Thames. Between Waterloo and Southpark Bridge. We found nothing online, but I called Lestrade and there's a body on the bank. We were waiting for you to come with us, if you'd like.' he sounded down.

'Yes, I'd like,' she said, and sighed. 'I'm sorry. Give me a few minutes.'

Sherlock let out a breathy laugh, and Florence jogged back to the bathroom, where she brushed her hair. She didn't bother drying it anymore, and let it cascade down her shoulders, moistening the shirt she was wearing. She moved to grab the light khaki jacket resting on the hook on the door. A folded slip of paper fell out of the pocket, and she bent down to pick it up, opening it. There was writing on it, and she read it quickly.

_Dear Florence. _

_I am aware of the fact you think we're angry with you. That's why you're not returning any calls, but we can see you're active on your phone. We have stopped calling. We just need to know you're okay. Please contact us soon._

_We also have... unfinished business. You know what I'm talking about. _

_Yours truly, _

_ -Arthur Jackson._

* * *

**Ooh, it's nearly time to meet the Gang (hate calling them that, but don't know what else to call them at this point)**

**If you're new here, hi! I realise I haven't been leaving many author's notes. So, if you _really_ want to, why don't you follow and/or favourite? It would mean the world to me :)**

**Thank you for reading!**

**-H**


	12. chapter12

**We just left our dearest Florence after a particularly harrowing note she's received from the men she's trying to avoid. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Hastily pulling on her jacket, she ran out of the bathroom and into the living room, feeling her heart plummet with anxiety.

'They've been here,' she gasped, throwing the note at Sherlock, plonking onto the sofa and putting her head in her hands.

Sherlock read the note, his eyes darting across the page, taking in the writing.

'We don't know if they've been here. They could have slipped it into your pocket in passing.'

'I haven't worn this jacket since I arrived. They must have dropped it off whilst we were out.'

'But,' John said, taking in the note that Sherlock had just handed him, 'if they're your friends, like you say – why would they want to hurt, or threaten, you in any way?'

'Because I deserted them. I had information, _really_ important information, that I fled with. I have things about each of them that could ruin them. I realised I was out of my depth, I took the pill, and the rest – you know. They're angry, and I don't blame them. I was scared. But now, they might want to know what that information is, to diffuse it, and to do that they need the information that was given to me specifically, and I don't know if I can give it to them.' She had begun to cry at this point, and let out a sob when she finished her sentence.

'So they might need to...' Sherlock began, and his expression darkened.

'Get it out of me – the biggest, and only, drug-manufacturing, dealing gang in London, might have to get classified information out of me.'

'I'm susprised they still exist, if I'm being honest.' Sherlock said, and John fixed him with a stare.

'Classified by who?' John asked, and Florence shook her head at him.

'The man who gave me this information.' Sherlock frowned.

'But surely they wouldn't hurt you?' John said, shifting a little in his seat.

'They're incredibly unpredictable.'

'Who gave you the information?'

Florence's eyes widened in frustration. 'I can't tell you!'

Sherlock sighed, matching her annoyance, and placed his hands in the triangular shape under his chin. 'The first thing you need to do,' he said, closing his eyes, 'is contact them.'

'No!' she cried, and brought her hands down from her head. She was visibly shaking, her thin wrists quivering with fright. She ran her hands through her hair, as Sherlock stood and took her wrists, holding her hands in his, bringing them down from her head. John looked at them, his brow furrowing as he realised what Sherlock was doing. He was _comforting_ her.

'It will be okay. Just call them.'

'No.' she kept repeating it, shaking her head, pulling away from him. 'No, please, no.'

'They wanted to know if you were okay. Just tell them.'

She stared at him, her eyes clouding as she thought. She then nodded, and took the phone from her pocket. She stared at it in her hands for a little bit, then shook her head. 'After we've finished this.'

* * *

_'That's nice,' James said, walking steadily into the main room of the Warehouse. Florence jumped, dropping the glass in her hand. It smashed on the floor. _

_She had been singing to herself, which James had come to know as a coping mechanism. She hadn't opened up about her life before they had found her, but it was clear something had happened to her. She was always nervous and jittery, and she had frequent panic attacks and breakdowns that left her completely unsociable for days on end. _

_Florence stared down at the shards of glass around her feet. 'Thank you,' she said quietly, before picking up the biggest bits with her hands. As she leaned down, her sleeve rode up, and James saw several scars on the back of her hand, and on her wrist. He didn't say anything, just found two magazines and used them to scoop the rest of the shards into the old dustbin they lit every night. _

_'Arthur speaks highly of you. He says he wants to take you out soon.' he continued, trying to break the uncomfortable silence. Florence looked up at him, her brow furrowing in confusion. James chuckled. 'By out, he means on one of our... errands. He thinks you'll be good on the field.'_

_Florence nodded in understanding. 'What sort of errands?'_

_'Eh,' James began, 'could be anything. We're the good guys, though, don't worry.' _

_She looked up at him, a slight smile playing on her lips. She surveyed him, as Sherlock had taught her to do. _

_His face was somewhat pretty, with thick lips and high cheekbones. His hair was gelled so it sat close to his head, but it was quite long. It was clear he spent a lot of time on his looks, which suggested that he was either seeing someone or was interested in someone. His eyes were an icy blue that you could see straight through. He had seen so much, yet was able to keep his attitude cheerful and friendly. _

_He seemed like an all in all good guy, so why was Florence so afraid of him? _

_She realised with amusement that it was probably the pistol strapped to his belt, and the long scar that measured from the tip of his hairline to the base of his lip._

* * *

There was indeed a body on the Thames Bank, and it didn't take long for Sherlock to analyse it. Florence didn't take much in, her mind was completely preoccupied. She was trying to structure what she would say to them.

It started with a greeting. She didn't know what greeting, she was overthinking it slightly, so she would just say what came to her head immediately after Arthur picked up. It was one-hundred percent likely that he would put it on speakerphone, so everyone else could hear it, so she had to be careful. She didn't want to say something to all of them that she could only say to Arthur.

She would then proceed to tell them that she was okay. She didn't really know what else to say, other than just that. She didn't know whether to say what she was doing, and she _definitely _would not tell them where she was. She did not want a house call. Maybe she could say she was with Sherlock – but his information was plastered all over the internet. They would know where she was.

But then again, they could also trace the call. Maybe she should so it whilst she was at Scotland Yard, where she knew they would be headed later.

She ran a hand through her hair. The smell was getting to her – rotting sewage, mixed with the mud of the bank. It made her want to throw up. She stared down at the body in front of her, which Sherlock was flitting around like a fly on an apple. She stared at it, at the marks on his neck. He was strangled to death, the life drained from him like water down the plug hole.

She walked slowly towards it, bending down and using her sleeve to move his head, so she could see the marks better. Sherlock had got out his phone, and was scrolling on it. He frowned at her, but didn't protest.

She moved around the head, inspecting the neck. There bruises under the jaw, and red marks around his mouth and hairline. Something was bugging her, something about the way this man was strangled. She stepped backwards, and Sherlock looked up at her questioningly. She shook her head, and he looked back down at the neck. She was aware of John and Lestrade talking behind her, oblivious to the sudden storm in her mind. She _knew_ who killed him. She just couldn't think.

She watched as Sherlock stood, putting his phone down and addressing all of them. 'He's been in the river a while. Almost all the data has been destroyed.' he grinned slightly, and continued. 'I'll tell you what, though – that lost Vermeer painting's fake.'

As he went into an in-depth explanation of what he was talking about, but Florence only managed to hear half of it. Her mind was a turmoil of deep, black sea, thoughts lighting up the storm like lightning does to the sky. She lost all track of time, and once she regained her stance she noticed the talking had stopped, and all eyes were on her.

'I need to go.' she said, and walked away before they could protest.

* * *

_Dear Sherlock,_

_It's unlikely that this letter will ever find you, but on the off-chance that it does – hello. I miss you. _

_It's been an interesting past couple of years. I have apparently joined a gang. I'm not going to tell you their names, because if this _does_ find you, it might put them in danger, but they're nice to me. They treat me like I'm their little sister – protective, but argumentative. _

_I started going out on their 'errands' – again, no details because it gives too much away. They're dangerous, but they're fun, and as long as one of the boys are with me I rarely get hurt. _

_I wonder on a daily basis if you are okay. I don't have access to the internet, otherwise I'd Google you, just to see if you were still around. I worry about you, and Mycroft. _

_You mustn't worry about me though, if you are. I'm okay. I keep having breakdowns and panic attacks but other than that, I don't think about my mother much any more. I've even managed to talk about the Incident without crying. _

_I really wish I could see you again. I miss you so much. _

_So much love, Florence x_

* * *

Florence woke with a strangled scream. She sat bolt upright, and noticed she was on the couch. She must have dozed off, whilst, and she thought this with a frustrated sigh, Sherlock was talking to her.

Sherlock, she saw, was sitting on his armchair, fully clothed, despite the fact it was four in the morning. He looked at her, his expression unreadable.

'Sorry,' she gasped, bringing her hand up to her head and breathing deeply, trying to calm her fast-beating heart.

Sherlock turned back to the silent TV screen, which was showing the news. 'Which one was it this time?' He didn't sound at all annoyed, just that same emotionless drone.

'A compilation. You let me fall asleep?'

'Your mind was obviously troubled. I didn't want to disturb you.'

'You shouldn't have. I could have helped.'

'With what?'

'With the case.'

'Oh, yes. The case.' his voice went high-pitched as he mimicked the client. '"Mr Holmes, I thought my wife was having an affair, so I shot her whilst I was asleep!"'

'It seemed a lost cause.' she muttered, dropping back down onto the sofa.

'I don't believe in lost causes.' he said darkly, and Florence felt a twinge of guilt, before he paused for a bit. He then jumped up. 'Well,' he said, picking up his violin and holding it to his chin. 'It's slightly more interesting than a stolen painting, although I'm sure we're not done with our anonymous caller just yet.'

'You don't?'

'No – he left us without saying goodbye. If what I think is correct, and this man is playing with us, he would want to make a spectacular finish.'

'So you're going to solve this case in between?'

'Yes, although I suppose there's no helping that _poor_ man now.' he said, completely sarcastically. 'I'll wait 'till the morning.'

'Isn't John asleep?'

'It's morning.' he said, completely contradicting his last statement before shutting up and playing a random melody. Florence recognised it as one of his own, and she smiled, turning to face the ceiling. 'Have you thought any more about trying to find your... friends?' he said when he had finished.

She applauded politely, and they heard the familiar groan from directly above them. 'Morning, John!' Sherlock called, before turning and looking down at his friend.

'No.' she said. 'I know they sent me that note, but I still don't know what they'd think of me. I'm a bit worried about calling them. I left without warning.'

'You seem to do that quite a lot.'

'Yes. Okay. I know you're upset, but do you really keep having to crack stupid fucking jokes like that?'

'I'm not upset. Anymore. And I just still can't believe you're back.'

'I missed you to bits.'

Sherlock chuckled. 'You haven't lost those funny terms, have you?'

Florence shook her head. 'Never.'

'Shame.'

'Nah. You wouldn't have me any other way.'

'Debatable.'

Florence looked at him, her expression dazed. 'What happened when I was here?'

'Not much. I went to the gallery about the painting, John went to the corpse's house and spoke to his... mutuals. We also managed to solve Mycroft's case for us. Almost got killed by a man who was a _lot_ taller than me-'

'Taller? Than you?' Florence asked, cutting him off. It was meant as a joke, but something deep inside told her that this was not a good sign. She knew of one person who was taller than Sherlock Holmes.

'Yes. He got away. Anyway, by tomorrow all the distractions will be over, and we're just waiting on the last of the bomber's requests.'

The thought made Florence shudder. Yet another tedious task, where someone was put in danger. More danger. Danger that would scar them for life, if they didn't die.

'I'm going to bed.' she said, and did as she said.

* * *

'Arthur.' James muttered, holding his phone in one hand and beckoning with the other. 'You _need_ to see this.'

'What?' Arthur said, his voice impatient. He walked over, and James showed him the screen. His eyes widened in disbelief. 'Fuck. She's with them.'

* * *

**OooOOoOoH**

**This is all very interesting, if I may say so myself. **

**See you next time :)**


	13. chapter13

**Hello! i'm so sorry for the delay in chapters, i've just moved into somewhere with no wifi! it's horrible! **

**i can keep writing though ;) **

**thank you for being patient **

**\- **

'Well, that was fun.' Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 'Of course the man she was having the affair with did it. He knew the husband was an active sleep-walker, it was the only logical solution.'

'And he confessed.' John said, rifling through some papers.

'That's not the point. I solved it before, it was just bad luck that he confessed.'

John looked at him. He thought to say something, but shook his head, realising it was futile. 'You seen Florence recently?'

'How recently?'

'Recently, Sherlock.'

'If you're saying a few hours recently, no. But I saw her yesterday, and I heard movement upstairs.'

'Huh. I wonder if she'll mind me checking on her, she might be ill.'

Sherlock looked at him, frowning. 'No, I'll do it. She doesn't quite trust you yet.'

He flung himself out of his chair as John frowned, and jogged up the stairs, calling out her name to warn her of his arrival. However, when he got no answer and had knocked on her door several times, he opened it regardless, to find she was not in it.

'Florence!' he yelled, just to ensure she wasn't still in the flat somewhere. When he didn't get an answer, his eyes raked the room, looking anywhere for clues. He zeroed in on the fact her bed was a mess, but her covers had been neatly made, the cushions still carefully placed. She was sitting on it, but had been dragged off. The window had been closed as far as it could without making a noise. The glass of water on the table nearest the window had been knocked over, the contents spilled over the carpeted floor.

He spied a piece of paper sticking out from under the lamp on her bedside table, and leaped over the bed to read it. The handwriting was a careful print, but not her own.

_Dear Mister Holmes,_

_We are sorry to have taken Florence like this, but we had to drug her so she could keep quiet. We have some unfinished business. Nothing harmful, she'll be okay, but we couldn't leave this unresolved. Please bare in mind that we all care for her too, so you don't have to worry. We'll contact you when it's done._

_Thank you for understanding - A J _

Sherlock went through every single person he knew with the initials 'A J'. Eventually, he recalled what Florence had said when they first spoke properly. She said she had been found and rescued by someone called Arthur Jackson, but would he really be dumb enough to put his initials on the paper, when he could probably presume that Florence told Sherlock about him?

Unless he wanted him to know. He had made a point of saying she would be okay, so maybe that was just a... safety deposit, of sorts. Sherlock knew his name. If anything happened to Florence, he could report him to the police.

His eyes swept over the room again before he ran down the stairs, thrusting the note at John. 'They've taken her.' he said, his voice almost calm.

'What?!' John exclaimed, reading the note. His expression was startled, which made a lot of sense.

'The gang that she was with the for past seven years.' Sherlock said, throwing himself onto his chair.

'"Unfinished business" - what do you think that means?'

'She said she left with no warning. She said she had a job – information she had to relay, but never did. She also said that her and Arthur – or A J – got separated. What it was she was sending must have been important.'

'Maybe they're angry with her.'

'In that case...' Sherlock trailed off, his mind switching to thought. John sighed – he hated it when he stopped mid-sentence.

Suddenly, he leaped from his chair and ran towards the stairs. He grabbed his coat from the stand, and just as John began to follow him he was downstairs.

* * *

'Sherlock,' he began, moving down the stairs at quite a speed. Unsurprisingly, the detective ignored him. 'Sherlock,' he said, a bit louder. Once again, he was ignored. 'Sherlock!'

'What, John?'

'Has it not occurred to you-'

'Probably has-'

'That this is a _gang _we're dealing with? Sure, Florence's gang, but a _gang_, Sherlock!'

'What's all this about a gang?' Sherlock sighed as their landlady came around the corner, an apron tied loosely around her waist.

'Not _now_, Mrs Hudson,' he said, and John only had time to offer her an apologetic smile before he was pulled out of the door and into the street lamp lit Baker Street.

* * *

_'We're moving out.' James said darkly as Florence walked into the main room of the Warehouse. It was early, and the sun was just beginning to light London. _

_'Why?' Florence said, her voice growing panicked. What had happened? Where were they going? Were they leaving London? She had never done that before, and she didn't know how she'd cope._

_'We ran into some...' Arthur began from behind her, making her jump. 'Unpleasant company. They know where we are, and they could be dangerous. We have to go.'_

_'Where will we go?' Florence argued, her voice edgy. She could see Arthur's eyes hardening, but she didn't stop. 'This isn't the nineteenth century. We have to go somewhere that isn't owned, otherwise we'll be prosecuted.'_

_'I know.' he replied shortly, surging past her and to James. 'Did you hear back from him?'_

_James shook his head. 'I think today has to be on the road, Arthur. I don't think he's gonna reply any time soon.'_

_'I've got a place.' Florence began, so quietly the men ignored her. They kept arguing with each other. She cleared her throat, getting their attention before repeating it, slightly louder. 'I know somewhere we can go. It's a shithole, but if it's just for tonight...'_

_'Brilliant,' Arthur exclaimed. 'will we be undetected?'_

_'I imagine so. It's an abandoned factory used as a drug den, on the other side of London. Technically I was banned from it, by the inhabitants, but I'm sure they'll make an exception.'_

_James chuckled. 'Why were you banned?'_

_'I stole from them on several occasions.'_

_'Maybe,' Arthur said slyly. 'Just maybe, they'll let you in if we give them some of our own.'_

_Florence nodded. 'They have a taste for strong stuff.'_

_'Thank you, Flo. You've saved us.' James smiled._

_Florence raised her eyebrows in disbelief. 'Eh.'_

* * *

Florence opened her eyes slowly. She was in a room she found almost familiar, so familiar she could reach to her side and grab the glass of water that was always left out for her.

When she touched the glass, she realised with horror where she was.

'Arthur?!' she called. 'James?'

Getting no answer, she stood up. She swayed slightly, and her head felt light. She recognised the symptoms – she had been drugged. 'Arthur!' she yelled, feeling her fear intensify. Why was she there alone? Where had they gone? They must have taken her, so why would they have left her?

She wandered through the deserted warehouse, her steps echoing eerily. She heard a muffled voice to her left, so she ran towards it, hoping it was someone she knew. She threw open the door to one of the little side rooms, to find Michael tied and gagged. She fell to her knees, scrambling to help him. His eyes were trained on her, and the second she got the gag off, he whispered: 'it's a trap.'

Florence's eyes widened, and she took a step back. She felt arms around her waist and mouth, holding her in place. Her hands flew to her face, scratching at the hand. She couldn't breathe. Michael looked up at her, his face unreadable. She brought her elbow back hard, hitting her captor in the ribs. His grip slackened slightly, and she wriggled out, running from the room before she could get a look at who it was. She felt no remorse for leaving Michael – he had helped them trap her.

She ran at full pelt down the length of the warehouse, and she could hear the echoing footsteps behind her. She still had no idea who it was, but she dared not look.

She knew her way around the place like the back of her hand, and she had hiding spots, where she would go if Arthur, or any of the others, were angry. She'd wait until they started calling for her, and she'd come out.

The nearest one, she realised, was on the roof.

Knowing her chaser was probably following her, she took hold of the rope that hung from a hole in the ceiling. It was wet, as it was raining, which increased her grip on it. She felt the drops of water begin to soak her as she started the climb – before a hand grabbed at her foot and pulled down, hard. She yelled, and tightened her hold on the rope. With her other foot, she lashed out, hitting whoever was following her in the head. She heard a slight grunt and the hand dropped her leg. She recognised that grunt, but couldn't place it, which made her climb faster.

Nearing the top, she felt another force at the bottom – the man was following her. Her hands knew where to pull herself up, but it was wet – and _she_ was wet, so she climbed a little bit more before hoisting herself onto the roof.

It was just getting dark as she straightened herself, and she could see the cars far down below. She ran over to where the rope was secured, and her hands fumbled at the knot frantically. She was aware of the tightened rope, and how that made it all the more harder. Suddenly, the rope slackened, and she felt a hand on her shoulder. She was yanked backwards, her head hitting the corregated iron hard. Her vision went blurry for a second, and a dark shape loomed over her. She still couldn't see the face. She scrambled out of it's way, avoiding the hole she came through. Her wet hair was in her face, and she pulled it out so she could see clearer. Her t-shirt was sodden, and the jeans she was wearing clung to her legs.

She stood hastily, and almost fainted. She was in a bad shape, that was clear to both herself and the man before her.

She found the face was masked, with a terrifying grin.

* * *

'Where do you think she is? We can't just go cruising around London 'till we spot a gang.' John asked, once they were seated in the cab. Sherlock ignored him, his indifferent face lit up by the phone in his hand. The cab was dark, despite the fact it was only just twilight.

Eventually, after the cabbie cleared his throat, Sherlock barked a location and they were off.


	14. Chapter 14

Florence felt her heart plummet, and she backed away slowly. Her feet ran over the corrugated iron, finding her foot spaces, where she could stand without falling. The man before her walked slowly towards her.

'Who are you?'

'That doesn't matter.' the voice said, and Florence recognised it. Like she recognised the grunts, she could _not_ place the voice. No matter how hard she tried. He had an accent – an American accent – but it sounded weird, as if it wasn't real.

Her foot caught the edge of the hole she came through, and she stopped. He carried on walking.

Florence's mind raced. She didn't know what this man would do to her, but she had to think of what to do.

She couldn't run like this. She was backed against a metaphorical wall, whereas in fact it was quite the opposite.

Her head turned to look down the hole. The rope was swinging gently as each raindrop hit it. The water was dripping down her neck, and she could feel the chill. The man was still walking towards her and, as she realised there was nothing else she could do, she stepped backwards.

She fell for a little bit with the raindrops, and it felt nice. She wanted to fall like this forever – gravity seemed to pause. Then she remembered what she was doing, as gravity pressed play again, and her hands scrambled for the rope in front of her. She couldn't reach it. She let out a slight yell in fear as she fell backwards, away from the rope. This was it. She was going to die.

With some difficulty, she relaxed every muscle in her body, and she fell limp. She had read that if you did this, there was less chance of the bones breaking. She didn't know if it would work, but she needed anything right now. She was going to die.

Just before she hit the floor, she felt a pair of warm arms catch her, and they both fell to the floor.

Florence turned towards the ceiling, breathing hard. She sat up, and looked at Arthur Jackson. They stood at the same time, looking at each other. Arthur's face was concerned.

She breathed a sigh of relief, and went to hug him. He stopped her, taking gentle hold of her chin and moving it to see if she was okay. He then did so with her arms, and noticed the cut on her hand.

'Hand?' he said, his voice annoyed.

'Accident.' She really didn't want to tell him _how_ she got it – by raising a chair above her head to try and kill herself. He probably wouldn't have been best pleased.

'You've been away from us for what, nine days? And you've hurt yourself.'

'Accident!'

He smiled a rare smile, and hugged her tight. 'We're sorry we had to... you know.'

'Drug me.' Florence said, disgruntled. 'was there any other way? It felt too good.'

His smile faded as he realised the implications of what he had done. 'Shit. Sorry.'

'What's going on?' James ran into the room, his clothes soaking wet.

'Young Florence here just fell from the fucking roof.'

'What was she doing on the roof?'

'Ask her.'

'What were you doing on the roof?' James' brow was furrowed.

'Running from someone. Michael...'

'Has been dealt with.' Arthur said sullenly. Florence's face fell.

'Is he okay?'

'We – _I, _thank you, James – have him in that room. He's safely untied. Did you get the face of the man following you?'

'No, he was wearing a mask.' it suddenly dawned on her what had just happened. 'shit. _Shit_.' she melted to the floor, her head in her hands. 'Fuck.'

James and Arthur exchanged a familiar look – it was clear she was about to melt with emotion. James knelt down and put his hand on her shoulder. She leaned in towards him, and they stayed like that for a while. He planted a light kiss on her hair before standing.

'I'm going to go up onto the roof – he might still be up there.' he said, and made towards the rope. He scaled it with ease.

Arthur knelt down before Florence, his face serious. 'Your friend is probably looking for you, isn't he?'

'Who, Sherlock?' Florence said. 'Probably. But he's no threat to us – _y__ou_ – he knows it would hurt me for him to hurt you.'

Arthur nodded, and stood. 'Okay. We should prepare Michael for his arrival. Do you want to come?'

'Can I hit him?'

'Only if you do it hard and in the face.'

'Done.'

* * *

Sherlock stepped gingerly into the warehouse, his footsteps light. He could see wet prints on the concrete floor, and he followed them carefully. He had sent John somewhere else, he couldn't quite remember where – it was not important. All that mattered right now, at that particular moment in time, was to find the gang that had taken his best friend.

He heard voices faintly in the distance, and he abandoned his footprints and followed them instead. His investigation took him through several cold, white corridors, and into a bigger room. There was a hole in the ceiling, and a rope hanging from it. It was swinging, which indicated someone had just touched it. His eyes scanned the room, looking for anything else that might've indicated this. He noticed a wet patch on the floor, and more footprints leading away from it.

Quite suddenly, his mouth was covered with a cloth and he was knocked out cold.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes quickly, unsure as to where he was. He was in a dark room, illuminated slightly by a small window. The walls were made of iron, and it was rusting in places. He saw Florence sat against the wall, her eyes stone cold and directed towards the wall. She was very deep in thought. She cracked a worried smile when he looked at her.

'Are you okay?' she asked.

'Yes,' Sherlock replied, sitting up. He noticed his coat was on the other side of the room, dripping wet. 'what happened?'

'James thought you were the intruder. He told me to apologise for him – he's gone with Arthur and Michael. You were out for a few hours.'

'Where's John?'

'I texted him from your phone. He's gone back to Baker Street. I was instructed to wait here with you until Arthur got back – they had to go to their second location, since the intruder knows where they are.'

'Intruder?'

Florence tilted her head to the side. 'Mm. He chased me onto the roof, and I fell off it. Arthur caught me, though, and he got away. I hit my head, and I think it's bleeding but I daren't look.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Let me see,' she turned around, and sure enough, her dark hair was stained with the red, sticky liquid. He winced. 'You're okay now?'

'It hurts a little but, yes. I really want to go to bed,' she said, her voice taking a pleading turn. She rubbed her forehead with her hand.

'You sound like a grandmother,' Sherlock grinned, standing carefully. The room swayed, but then went still again.

'No I don't,' she replied, a slight smile on her face. She stood as well.

'Would you like to take a hot water bottle with you, Grandma Florence? Or are you satisfied with the cat laying at the foot of your bed?'

'What about the mints?'

'And the apparent desire to decorate a house completely with beige interior.'

Florence mock-gasped. 'And the reusable shopping bags!'

'And the glasses chain? For absolute ease-of-sight?'

'And the subconscious thing that all old women have, they really hate long hair. I could never cut my hair.'

'You'd be a terrible grandmother.'

'Forget grandmother, imagine the children!' They were both laughing so hard, tears were streaming from her eyes. She began to fall over, her hands covering her mouth, and Sherlock held her steady. She leaned into him, her smile still wide. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her.

'That settles it, then.' Sherlock began, his smile slowly fading. 'You're never having children.'

'They'd be dead in a week.' Florence replied, but the fun had gone. '_I'd _probably be dead before them.'

'Not on my watch.'

'Then you'd better watch harder.' Sherlock looked down at the top of her head, and subconsciously, his grip tightened.

'You're not going away again.' he whispered.

Their heads whipped towards the door as a knock echoed throughout the small room. They pulled apart quickly as Arthur stalked inside.

'I see you're awake.' he said to Sherlock, his voice almost a growl. 'It's good to finally meet you.' he extended his hand to him, and he took it, grudgingly. It was cold, and smooth to the touch.

'Likewise.'

'It looks like the intruder is gone. He hasn't followed us, anyway. We made sure to take a few... detours.'

Sherlock observed the man carefully. His face was stunning – prominent cheekbones, a chiseled chin and large, blue eyes. His hair was short, but it still fell over his face slightly. He wore a dark suit, with a light shirt and tie. He was definitely the man Florence described him as.

He looked for the signs of the 'detours' – he was bone dry, but his shoes were wet – it had stopped raining outside. A train ticket was pointing out of his trouser pocket – they had taken the tube. It was a travel card – all zones – which indicated he had taken several different trains to lose their trail. It couldn't have taken long to shake the intruder.

He zoned back into their conversation, as he heard it was getting important. 'I suggest you stay with us, Florence. It was clear that whoever it was, was after you.'

'Why am I any safer with you than with Sherlock? He's got Scotland Yard on speed dial.'

Arthur looked Sherlock up and down, and the detective could feel the hatred radiating from him, which was when he realised that the feeling was mutual. He didn't like to feel that, because he knew that it had something to do with Florence, and that subject still made him uncomfortable.

'I don't know.'

'Arthur.' Florence said, her voice hard. 'Come on.'

'What do you want me to say, Florence? That you should just walk free, into a potentially unsafe London?'

'London's always been unsafe, Arthur. I was fucking attacked, in an alleyway off a heavily populated street-' she hit the back of her hand with the other in time with the last three words, '-whilst high off some random drug someone had given to me the same night. Whenever I walk alone, I get frightened and have to go somewhere where there's people, and a lot of people, otherwise I'll panic. However, when I'm in crowds, I'm constantly battling the sensation that someone is following me, so I want to push everyone out of the way to get to safety. I'll never be safe in London. I'll never _feel_ safe in London. At least, with Sherlock, I'm with someone I know and have known for the better part of my life. And-' she said, walking swiftly towards Arthur and placing her hand on his shoulder. 'It's not that I don't love you to pieces, and James and... Michael, too. But it has just got to the point that I'd rather be with Sherlock.'

Arthur stared into her eyes, a blank stare that was completely unreadable by either of the other people in the room. As his gaze switched between each of her eyes, she stared back at him. Eventually, he nodded.

'Fine. We'll discuss our little... predicament later. But,' his stare turned to Sherlock. 'If anything happens, anything at all-' his expression turned dangerous. 'you will dearly pay. Now go.'

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes looked steadily into the microscope at one of the specimens he had retrieved from the crime scene. The lab around him was silent, which was just how he liked it, usually. However, this time, he was dunked in and out of reality, into his past and what he could imagine his future would be. He never usually liked to procrastinate, and especially remember, but this time was an exception. The crime scene was linked to her, they had _found_ her DNA, on the tshirt of one of the men murdered. He closed his eyes. _

_First, he saw him and Florence Wood cycling. She was only thirteen, and he was sixteen. He had just finished school forever, preparing for his college years in September. He was behind her, and watched as her hair flew behind her. The parks of London city were still polluted, but there was grass, which was more than he could say for the streets. She laughed as he sped up and splashed her with a puddle. They were both happy. It was before her depression, before her mother's suicide. It felt good, the sun on his white-shirted back. _

_Second, it jumped forward, and he was alone. His apartment, all around him, was dark, and it didn't look like his home at all. He was watching the television, the only light coming from the screen. He saw her face pop up, along with the words: 'body found'. He picked up a glass on the table next to him, and hurled it at the TV. It smashed into one thousand pieces, and somehow he started bleeding. He was breathing heavily, and his vision was blurry. He didn't want to accept she was dead. _

_When he jumped back, his chest hurt, and he couldn't breathe. The specimen in the microscope seemed a million miles away, and his eyes welled with tears. He bit his finger, hard, to stop himself crying. This couldn't happen. He was in a relatively public place, and he was _crying_. He had to stop. He had to find her._

* * *

**I have very little time so I'll try and spam chapters for you all. **

**I came back to see so much support, so many new followers and favourites and I just want to thank you all for everything, this is such an amazing experience, to have people appreciate your work. **

**Thank you. **


	15. chapter15

'Does he really think he can threaten me?' Sherlock growled, storming out of the warehouse with Florence in tow.

'Sherlock...'

'_Me_? John, perhaps. You, you're more likely to fall for that. But _me_?'

'Hold on!' Florence yelled, and Sherlock realised he was practically running. He slowed his pace. 'He's concerned. For both of us.'

'Don't start making excuses for him-'

'Why? Because you're _jealous_? You're jealous because I might have wanted to stay with them? The only reason I didn't was because I had missed you, to the ends of the Earth, and deep down I thought you did too. But no, you're more concerned about being _threatened_ by someone who actually cares about me.'

'I care about you.'

'Really? Because recently, my mind has not been altogether healthy, and I need confirmation frequently-'

She would have continued talking, if Sherlock hadn't cut her off with his finger to his lips. 'You were in Year Seven. I was in Ten. You had just started high school, and you were absolutely terrified. You didn't want to seek me out because you thought I'd be embarrassed by you. So instead you suffered in silence whilst I had literally nothing better to do. When you told me this when we got home, you were crying. So I took you out, and we looked at the sky, and you told me that clouds were "visions of the sky" and I listened, but inside I was kicking myself, because I was angry with me for making you think I'd be embarrassed by your presence.'

Florence stared up at him, her wide eyes glistening. She opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock silenced her again.

'You were in Year Nine, and I had just left school. Summer holidays. I would be going to college that September. You were concerned about the wellbeing of your mother. You never saw her, and when you did, she was drunk. You wanted to live somewhere – _anywhere_ else but your home, so I offered the Manor. Mother wouldn't have minded, and Father thought you were brilliant. You laughed quietly and said "living with Mycroft?" and I agreed. That night, you called me and you were whispering. I think you were crying. You said that she hadn't come home, and you were on your own. You were nearly fourteen and I didn't want you to be alone at night, so I went to your house and spent the night. Then we spent the next day together, regardless of the fact that I had an interview with the university I was going to.'

Florence was looking at her feet. They were still walking, but now Sherlock stopped her by putting his hands on her shoulders and spinning her to face him.

'You were seventeen. Two-thousand and three, the year you went missing. It was the day before your birthday. Your eighteenth birthday. The sun was just setting, and I told you for the first time that I was a high-functioning sociopath. You looked at me, and I could tell you were thinking it over. Then you shrugged, grinned, and said "well at least you're not a low-functioning psychopath." and I remember I laughed for five minutes, and whenever I thought about it I would laugh more. And I remember that you made me feel better about it. Because that was the only time I ever felt self-conscious, when I was twenty-two and discovered I was a sociopath.' He clasped her shoulders. 'Look at me.' he said, and she didn't. 'Florence. Look at me.' she reluctantly raised her head. 'Do you remember these times?' he asked, and she swallowed tears.

'I do,' she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

'Then don't you _dare_ say I don't care for you. Because these times, and more, defined my life. And when you left, I turned into the emotionless _dick_ I am now. You made me human, Florence. And when you went I wasn't a human anymore. I didn't want to feel. So I'm sorry if that trait of mine is still active, and I don't show affection like I used to. I'm not who I was. So I'm sorry, Florence. I'm trying.'

Florence looked down again. She was obviously ashamed, and something inside Sherlock felt bad, and something else felt good. He had portrayed his message well. On the other hand, he had made her feel bad. And that hurt him somehow. She wasn't answering him, and he could see the cogs in her brain trying to find a perfect way of expressing her feelings.

Instead of speaking, she raised herself to his eye level by standing on her toes, and leaned in slowly, gently kissing him on the lips. It lasted less than two seconds, and as she pulled away he frowned. He was going to say something, but Florence was already gone, heading in the direction of a cab she was hailing. She didn't wait for him.

* * *

On the taxi ride home, Florence was kicking herself mentally. What the fuck did she go and do that for? She had probably ruined everything. She knew what he was like now, he wasn't much of a feeler – he had just made that very clear. Now she had done that, he would probably shut her out. She didn't want that. She wouldn't be able to handle that – Hell, what if it sent her spiralling again? What if she went mad?

She was so wound up in her thoughts she didn't notice the driver take one wrong turn, then another, then another until she found herself outside a large building. She was about to ask the driver what the hell he thought he was doing before the door opened beside her and she was hit rather forcefully over the head.

* * *

_Florence couldn't remember where she was. She had woken up in an unfamiliar room, and it appeared she was tied up. She could faintly hear shouts from a different room, but her head was heavy, and she couldn't listen. Her body ached. She remembered being kicked, hit, beaten like a badly treated horse. Her skin tingled and stung, and she could smell her own blood. The bonds tying her wrists were rubbing against them, and it _hurt_. She _hurt_. _

_Then, as she heard the terrifying _boom _of one of Michael's explosives, and she felt the building shake as it collapsed beneath her, she vowed that if she survived she would never have to be rescued again. _

_That didn't last long._

* * *

Sherlock knew something was wrong when he returned to 221B to find Florence was absent. He asked John, and he said she hadn't even come up.

That was odd, he thought – he had definitely heard her tell the driver to come here.

'Mrs Hudson?' he called, his voice booming around the building. It didn't take long before he heard her shuffling up the stairs, taking her time.

'Yes, dear?'

'Have you seen Florence? She didn't come home.'

'Ooh,' Mrs Hudson said, her facial expression darkening with worry. 'No, I'm afraid not, dear. Maybe she went up to Tesco's?'

'Without getting a list, or asking you what you wanted?' Sherlock said, moving to retrieve his phone from his pocket. 'Seems a little odd, don't you think?'

He was surprised to see a notification on his lockscreen – a text. He opened it hopefully, wishing it to be from her. It was. It did not seem right, however. His heart sank.

John caught his expression of worry, but it disappeared before he could question him. He thought nothing of it – he was probably just worried about Florence.

'Oh, it's okay – I've just got a text...' he trailed off as he read it. John looked at him again, and this time his expression lasted long enough for him to frown. 'John – come with me.'

'Can't, said I'd meet Sarah again.' Something told John that was not the right thing to do – but he had promised, and he was liking where this relationship was going.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and watched him go with an air of distaste. Then, spying the memory stick on the table John had left from the case Mycroft had given them, he had an idea. He picked it up, put it in his pocket, and moved over to his laptop.

_Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight. _

He glanced at the text message again, reading the words – the instructions – the bomber had left for him. He nodded in satisfaction, and waited for midnight.

* * *

The second Florence woke up, panic began to rise in her chest. She was tied to a chair. Her head throbbed, and by the taste in her mouth it was bleeding, too.

'Ugh.' a voice said from behind her, and she instantly recognised it as Molly's gay boyfriend, except this time it was thick with an Irish accent. 'Don't you just _hate_ it when blood gets in your hair?'

'What are... what are you doing?' she asked, realising it was a wheely, cheap office chair she was tied to, and wiggling her way round to face him. Every move hurt her.

'Sorry, I would answer with some type of seriousness, and / or a threat – but that was just too funny to watch.'

'Hilarious. What are you doing?' she said, her face emotionless. It was safe to say that inside she was not so calm.

'Holding you hostage, silly. What does it look like? All I have to do now is wait for little Sherlock Holmes to come rushing to your rescue. Providing he... makes it.'

'Don't you dare hurt him.' she growled, earning a hysterical laugh from her captor – Jim, she recalled.

'Or what? You'll kill me? I'm afraid, darling, you're not quite in that position.' he laughed. 'Let me go check if our favourite Doctor is ready. This is going to be _so_,' his voice was playful until he said 'so', where it took an aggressive turn, and he hit her in the stomach with the butt of a gun he had produced from his jacket. '_much,'_ he continued, kicking her hard in the leg – so hard, she heard it crack as she tried not to scream, _'fun_.' he smiled a dangerous smile, before clocking her round the head again, causing her entire world to turn black.

* * *

_Michael made his way steadily over the rubble of the building their explosive had just brought down. He claimed he was looking for survivors, but as he stepped delicately over shards of glass and huge slabs of grey concrete, he put his gun away. He had already done enough damage. _

_'You fucking _id_iot.' Arthur yelled from somewhere behind him, emphasising the first two letters of the last word for effect. 'You said this was a small explosive.'_

_'It was,' Michael said grimly, bending down to pick a piece of concrete up. Underneath was the very dead face of someone, so he replaced it harshly. 'compared to what else I have.'_

_'Was she still in there?'_

_'I don't know. If she was, she's long gone now, Arthur.' _

_The dust began to clear, but still not enough to see anything clearer. _

_'James!' Arthur called out, choosing to ignore Michael's last statement. _

_'She's here!' James called back, from somewhere within the dust cloud. Arthur breathed an audible sigh of relief. _

_'You were lucky there, Michael. If you had killed her I would have shot you, there and then.'_

* * *

**Enter, Moriarty. Yay!**


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock opened the door to the swimming pool carefully – he did not know what waited behind them. He was met with a wave of chlorine-scented humidity, and he shrugged his coat off, throwing it to the side. He looked around, moving towards the other side of the pool, very aware that it was only slightly lit – the observation gallery was pitch black.

He held up the memory stick. 'Brought you a little getting-to-know-you-present. That's what it's all been for, isn't it? All these puzzles, making me dance – just to distract me from _this_.' he gestures to the stick, turning around in a circle, waiting for a response. He had turned half way when he heard a door open, and his face fell in horror as he surveyed John Watson walking from one of the side rooms, wrapped in a beige jacket.

'Evening.' John said, his voice a monotone. 'This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?'

'John.' Sherlock muttered, his voice soft. He was reeling. 'what the hell...?'

'Bet you never saw _this _coming.'

All the worst-case scenarios went through Sherlock's head as he began slowly to walk towards his friend – or who he thought was his friend. All the while, his face showed a look of utter despair. John's face matched his pain as he moved his arm to show Sherlock the bombs strapped to his coat, and the red beam of a rifle pointed at it from the gallery above them.

'What,' John began, his voice the same monotone as before, 'would you like me to make him say next?' Sherlock was still moving towards him, and he tried desperately not to match his gaze as he surveyed the room for anyone else. 'Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer.' he continued, his voice breaking.

'Stop it.' Sherlock growled.

'Nice touch, this – the pool where little Carl died.' John said, narrating from an earpiece Sherlock spied. 'I stopped him, and I can stop John Watson too.' he relayed, wincing. 'Stop his heart.'

'Who are you?' Sherlock said, looking around the room again. A door opened, away from him, and Sherlock froze.

'I gave you my number,' a soft voice echoed around the pool. 'I thought you might call.' He had an Irish accent, and instantly Sherlock recognised it as Molly's boyfriend – by just the sound of his voice. However, when he turned around, it wasn't quite the shy, gay man they had met in Bart's lab, but a man in a Westwood suit, neat, slicked hair, and a deadly smile playing on his lips. His voice was more confident, and as he began to strut casually along the side of the pool labelled 'deep end', he spoke again.

'Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket,' he said, and Sherlock retrieved the gun from trousers, 'or are you just pleased to see me?'

Sherlock pointed the pistol at the man. 'Both.'

'Jim Moriarty. Hi.' he said, and a slight smirk lit up his face as he looked at the gun pointing at him, completely unafraid. When Sherlock didn't say anything, he continued. 'Jim? Jim from the hospital?' he carried on walking, as Sherlock carried on ignoring. 'Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? Ah, shame. But then, I suppose, that was the point...'

Sherlock frowned in confusion as the red beam flickered over John's chest again.

'Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty.' he stops walking. 'I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock – just a teeny glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see... like you.'

Sherlock did not hesitate. '"Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?"' John frowned, wondering why Sherlock was quoting "Jim'll Fix It" badly. Jim, however, grinned, clearly getting the reference. '"Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"'

'Just so.' Jim said, still smiling.

'Consulting criminal. Brilliant.'

'Isn't it? No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will.'

Sherlock cocked his gun, clearly getting ready to shoot. 'I did.'

'You've come the closest. Now you're in my way.'

'Thank you.'

'Didn't mean it as a compliment.'

'Yes you did.'

Jim shrugged, his voice smiling but his face staying put. 'Yeah, okay – I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock.' he raised his voice a few pitches. 'Daddy's had enough now!' It was then Sherlock noticed that his new enemy's eyes were a deep, dead black. Lifeless. Always.

John flinched as Jim started walking closer. 'I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems – even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play.' Sherlock's gaze flickered to John and back to Jim again in an instant.

'So this is a friendly warning, my dear. Back off.' his voice was dangerous. He smiled again, eyes glinting maliciously. 'Although, I have _loved_ this. This little game of ours. Playing Jim from I.T-' he said, with a British accent, before switching back - '-playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?'

'People have died.' Sherlock growled.

'That's what people _do!'_ he screamed the last word, and John flinched again.

'I will stop you.'

'No you won't.' he smirked.

Sherlock looked at John. 'You all right?'

John didn't answer. Jim walked up to his side, and he closed his eyes. 'You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead.' he still didn't answer, just nodded.

Sherlock, seemingly remembering why he was here, took out the missile plans from his pocket. 'Take it.'

'Huh? Oh, _that_!' Jim said, grinning. He reached out his hand and took it, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. John began murmuring to himself, and although Sherlock couldn't hear it, he could only imagine he was angry.

'Boring! I could have got them anywhere.' he throws it into the pool. John took this opportunity to run forward, putting his arms around Jim aggressively.

'Sherlock! Run!'

Jim laughed, and Sherlock stared, startled. He managed to keep his gun aimed at Jim's head.

'Good! _Very _good.'

'If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty – then we both go up.' John growled.

'Isn't he sweet?' Jim smiled at Sherlock, who just looked confused at this point, as he was trying to wrap his head around his situation. He mind had flayed from Florence altogether, but now he remembered her, and wondered where the hell she was. 'I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so attached to their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. But... _oops_.' Jim grinned as another laser beam pointed at Sherlock's head. John's face fell in horror. It only took Sherlock a second to realise what had happened. 'Gotcha.'

John stepped back, raising his hands in a surrender, showing the sniper he wasn't going to try anything. Jim tried to straighten his suit. 'Westwood.' he muttered, as if Sherlock didn't already know. 'D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?'

'Oh, let me guess – I get killed.' Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

'Kill you? Don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway. Some day. I don't want to rush it, though – I'm saving up for something _special_. No, no, no, no, no... if you don't stop prying, I'll _burn_ you. I'll burn the _heart_ out of you.'

Sherlock's face was stone. 'I've been reliably informed that I don't have one.'

'But we both know that's not quite true.' Jim smiled softly, and Sherlock knew he was talking about Florence. He blinked. 'Well,' Jim said, 'I'd better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat.'

'What if I was to shoot you now – right now?' Sherlock said, a hint of danger in his voice.

'Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face,' - he mimicked a look of surprise, then grinned again. '-because I would be surprised, Sherlock. I really would. And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long.'

Sherlock watched, his gun still aimed, as he began to walk away. 'Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.'

'Catch... you... later.' he said slowly.

'No you won't!' came the sing-song reply, and, being absolutely certain he was gone, Sherlock rushed over to John's side, kneeling in front of him to unfasten the bombs around the vest, on which the bombs were stuck.

'All right?' John didn't answer – instead, he was breathing hard, his head tilted back. 'Are you alright?' Sherlock growled, still fumbling with the straps. He was panicking, and it was not doing well with his hand-eye coordination.

'Yeah, I'm fine.' Sherlock ignored him. He had unfastened the vest, and was moving around John, trying to pull it off him. 'Sherlock.' Finally, he managed to pull the whole jacket off, and he threw it to the side. 'Jesus.' he was clearly going into shock, and Sherlock stared at him for a moment before running out of the door through which their new friend had left. 'Christ.'

'Are _you_ okay?' John said, as he could see his friend panicking. He was pacing, and scratching his head with the Other End of a loaded pistol.

'Me? Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine. Fine.' he turned to John, lowering the arm with the gun, seemingly noticing that one wrong move and he'd have his brain splattered over the walls. That'd make for a nice treat for the children in the morning, running in for their Saturday swimming lessons. 'That, er, thing you did – that you offered to do – that was... good.'

'I'm glad no one saw that.'

'Hmm?'

'You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.'

Sherlock shrugged, a smile quirking on his lips. 'People do little else.' John snorted, but it was cut off abruptly by a blood-curdling scream echoing around the building. John's gaze flickered to Sherlock, eyes widening in horror. _Florence_.

The red laser beam found its' way back over to John's chest. 'Oh.'

'Sorry, boys.' Jim said, his voice dancing. 'I'm soooooo changeable!'

He stalked into the room, Sherlock's back to him – and he could hear the shuffling of someone being dragged behind him. His heart dropped to his feet. 'It is a weakness with me but, to be fair, it is my _only _weakness.' he heard the shuffling body slump to the floor.

Sherlock turned to see Jim with his hands in his pockets, and Florence's lifeless, bloody, limp body laying beside him. She was tied at the wrists and feet, but her mouth was not gagged. Her blood-stained hair was slowly getting bloodier. Sherlock's fists clenched at his sides.

'You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but...' he laughed, and raised the pitch of his voice. 'everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!'

Sherlock looked away from Florence's body. 'And my answer has probably crossed yours.'

'Has it? That wasn't predicted. Neither, though, I suppose...' he gestured to Florence with his hand. 'had this. She's alive, by the way. Only just. She needs _real_ medical attention. More, though, after I do this...' he used his foot to push her roughly into the deep end of the water.

It took every muscle in Sherlock's body not to scream, or to rush to help as she began to sink, turning the water around her a bright crimson.

'Hm. Expected a bigger reaction, to be honest. Thought you cared more about your friends. Or is it all just...' he quirked his eyebrow. 'one sided? Wouldn't she be heartbroken to-'

It was then he noticed the lack of lasers on each of their bodies, and looked up just in time to see the face of Arthur Jackson leaning over the gallery wall. His face was horrified as he watched his best friend sink.

Sherlock, seeing that there was no one to stop him, dove into the water, as Jim began to laugh. He couldn't see her, just felt the heat radiating from her body as he plunged deeper. When he found her, he was gentle – he didn't know what hurt, or what was broken. He placed his hands under her arms, and began to kick towards the surface. When he reached it, James was already there, taking over and hoisting her onto the poolside, where she dripped and bled.

Michael had Jim held at gunpoint, but Jim's eyes were trained on Sherlock as he pulled himself from the water. Arthur burst into the room, rushing over to Florence, dropping to his knees beside her. He quickly and expertly placed her into the recovery position, and stood, beckoning for Michael to place his gun down.

'He probably has people manning the building. We couldn't have taken them all down.'

'Would you look at this! Little Florence has an army.' Jim said, laughing.

'What are you doing here?' Sherlock growled, sounding annoyed, but secretly he was pleased. Florence would be dead by now if they didn't show up.

'Did you think we wouldn't watch her leave? She got into a cab without you. So we followed her.' Arthur snarled, obviously holding back: '_because you didn't_.'

Sherlock nodded slightly at him before pulling his now soaking wet gun from his pocket, and pointing it not at Jim, but at the coat loaded with explosives. Jim's face remained steady, but his eyes suddenly grew anxious. He looked around the room, and counted four guns in total – Arthur's, James', Michael's and Sherlock's – threatening his life. He smiled again.

Quite suddenly and without warning, the intro to "Stayin' Alive" by the Bee Gees' began to play. Jim sighed in frustration.

'Do you mind if I get that?' he asked Sherlock, ignoring the rest of them altogether.

'No, no, please – you've got the rest of your life.' Sherlock said bitterly.

'Hello? Yes, of course it is. What do you want?' Jim said into the phone. He mouthed _sorry_ at Sherlock, who replied with a sarcastic _oh, fine. _Jim rolled his eyes as he listened, turning away from Sherlock slightly. Then he spun back around, his face utterly furious.

'_Say that again_.' he screamed, making John flinch. In the silence that followed, they heard Florence splutter, and with a quick nod from Arthur, James fell down to help her. 'Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will _skin_ you.' he drew out the 's' of skin, hissing like a snake. 'Wait.'

He lowered the phone, and walked towards them all, eyeing Florence hungrily. He stopped at the loaded jacket, before tearing his gaze from the girl to Sherlock. 'Sorry, wrong day to die.' he sang, his voice echoing around the desolate pool. He began to turn away, being sure to step on Florence's ankle as he did so. She let out a scream worse than before, and Sherlock's grip tightened on the gun.

'Oh. Did you get a better offer?' Jim didn't answer, just strode towards the door.

'You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock.' he said, and he raised the phone back to his ear. 'So if you have what you say you have, I'll make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes.'

They all waited until he was gone before John skidded on his knees over to Florence, who had fallen unconscious again. James moved to stop him, but Arthur put a hand out again. 'He's a doctor, James. Let him.'

'What was that about?' John said, grimacing as he surveyed the damage done on the girl before him.

'Someone changed his mind. The question is: who?'

'It doesn't matter who. We're all alive. We need to get out of here _right fucking now_.' Arthur growled, and he stooped to pick the explosive jacket from the floor.

'Right. What about Florence?' John asked, before realising how stupid that question sounded.

'The hospital, you idiot.'

* * *

**I both loved and hated writing this. I can now quote the entire pool scene, thank you very much - what a party trick!**


	17. Chapter 17

**The aftermath. If this is a bit slow, I'm sorry, this is just a filler I suppose :)**

* * *

Florence was talking in her sleep again. Murmuring incoherently, and Sherlock couldn't make out many words.

She had been submitted to the hospital the day of the pool, and had been in there for nearly a week. The doctors and nurses expected a full recovery, maybe not mentally – but physically, and that was a start.

Moriarty had broken her leg, and her ankle when he stepped on it. The hit to the stomach had broken a rib and caused internal bleeding, and her head had been hit hard in two different places. She had inhaled water when she was pushed in to the pool, and was violently sick when she had arrived at the hospital. She hadn't eaten properly in days, and it was beginning to have an effect on her physique.

John was constantly worried about her, but Sherlock had not seen her three friends since they left them at the pool. She barely spoke, just in her sleep, and the odd word – John said she was still in shock, and part of that Sherlock believed.

A different part of him, though, said that something had happened to her in that room with Moriarty. Something terrible.

He placed his tea on the table beside him, closed his laptop, and moved to go wake her up.

'Hey,' he muttered, taking her by the shoulder lightly and shaking. She shook her head in protest. 'Hey. It's okay.'

Her green eyes fluttered open, and she stopped fretting. She stared at him, crouching down beside her, and he saw her dig her nails into her arm as a way of trying to wake herself up. Satisfied, she smiled.

'Which was it?' he asked, but he already knew – he had died, again, and she was checking if he was still alive.

She shook her head, indicating she didn't remember. He smiled, and offered to make her tea. She accepted, silently.

'Heard from your... friends?' he asked, moving towards the little hospital kitchen to boil the kettle. He heard her check her phone.

'Not yet.' she said, her voice cracking with the words from disuse.

'Maybe they're waiting for you to contact them.'

'And say what? Thank you for pulling me out a swimming-' she didn't finish, and Sherlock knew it was because she couldn't breathe. Whenever she mentioned anything about that whole evening, she couldn't breathe. So, with her tea in his hand, he went to go sit opposite her, to engage her in distracting conversation.

'Remember when you got lost that time in the woods surrounding the Manor?' he said, beginning to smile as her breathing steadied. 'You were gone for hours, and I didn't notice because I thought you'd gone home already, and it wasn't until Mycroft told me he could see you waving from the top of a tree from his bedroom window that I noticed.'

She had begun to laugh, and she sipped the tea gingerly. Her eyes wanted to say thank you, but she could only stare and smile.

Neither of them had spoken about the kiss. Sherlock had wanted to, and one single question burdened his mind, burning at his brain and his skull. _Why him?_

* * *

James shut the window of his little room quickly, as the wind was beginning to pick up. Shuddering, he looked down at his laptop, at the code he was working on. He was trying to find Florence. Just find her. They had been watching 221B for days – and only Watson and Holmes had come out of it – never her. So, Arthur had resorted to stalking.

Michael was still being punished for his little stunt with the "trap", but the 'punishment' was nothing serious, just disrespect from Arthur. He knew that his two followers – and Florence, whenever she was around – respected him, and if he didn't want their company, they felt like disappointments.

Without warning, the screen blipped with a message.

'St. Bart's. Stop trying. FW.'

* * *

'How's it going?' Sherlock asked, placing a cup of tea before his best friend, and sitting on a chair beside her bed. The girl before him shrugged, placing the book and pen down on her lap. 'Is it boring?'

'Not really.' Florence said, and Sherlock nodded. He liked it when she spoke to him – mainly because she wouldn't speak to anyone else. 'This is, though.' she continued, spreading her arms around her in a gesture to the bed she was sitting in.

'You're healing. That's all that matters right now.'

'What about you? How are you?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Pretty much the same. Little more on my mind than usual, but when has that ever been a bad thing?'

'When it harms you.' Florence replied softly, and Sherlock looked at her, dead in the eye. She stared back. 'Don't pretend you're not hurting.'

'Why would I be hurting?' Sherlock said, a little too aggressively for Florence to let go.

'Too much in your head. This has happened before, Sherlock. You nearly killed yourself.'

'I'm okay. Really.' Florence gave him a look that stated she _clearly_ wasn't buying it.

'Talk to me. I'm all ears.'

Sherlock stared at her coldly for a minute, his arms crossed over his chest. She stared back, moving once to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, before he sighed. 'You know what I'm going to say.'

Florence looked away, staring down at her hands in her lap. 'Surprised you hadn't said it sooner. Look. Don't get angry with me – I didn't know what to say-'

'I wouldn't have gotten angry with you.' Sherlock said, and he uncrossed his arms. 'At all.'

Florence closed her eyes, using her two forefingers to rub her temples. 'I know.'

'If you had stayed, or if you had waited for me, I would have just asked you why.'

'Why?' Florence asked, letting out a shrill laugh and bringing her fingers down from her head. 'Why the fuck do you think?'

'I don't know. I'm not good with people.'

'You used to be. You got me to like you.'

'I wasn't trying.' Sherlock smirked.

'Bet you're glad, though.'

'Thrilled.' He paused. 'So, why?'

Florence just smiled weakly. 'Use your powers of deduction, Holmes. It'll come.'

Sherlock frowned, then sighed again as his phone buzzed from inside his pocket. 'It's John. Apparently I've got to go home _right now. _And he says_ I_ don't understand timing.'

Florence smiled slightly. 'I'll see you later.'

* * *

_Florence stared down at the photograph in her hands. A tear splashed onto the paper, and she wiped it off with her sleeve. It depicted her whole family. Her father, her mother, and little her. Her mother looked so healthy. So happy. She was smiling. It made her feel sick. _

_She switched photographs, placing the one behind her on her bed. This one was slightly updated. Unsmiling Mrs Wood. This one was more familiar. Five year old Florence Wood grinned into the camera, waving. _

_The next one was more comfortable. Twelve year old Sherlock, stood with his hand on nine year old Florence's shoulder. Behind him was his family. They were all smiling – even Mycroft. They were all linked somehow – Sherlock's hand on her shoulder, Mrs Holmes' arm round each of her son's shoulders, Mr Holmes' arm on his wife's waist. If you were to cut this photograph up, you wouldn't be able to without cutting a piece of someone else. They had asked Florence to be in their family portrait. She had never felt more included. _

_The next was the last photograph ever taken of her mother. Just her and Florence. Neither smiling, neither happy. The resemblance was striking – both high, striking cheekbones. Both thin lips, and a small, straight nose. The only difference was that Florence's eyes were sparky, full of life. Her hair was longer, and a richer brown. Mrs Wood's was brittle, her eyes dead. Lifeless. _

_Florence needed a drink. _

_She thrust the pictures in a bag and threw it so hard across the room that it knocked the lamp off it's table. _

_Then she grabbed her purse and left._

* * *

Florence set down the pen she was holding, staring at the words she had written. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling onto her cheeks. It was the middle of the night, and she was thankful for that, for it meant that no one could come into her room and see if she was okay – she could just cry.

So she did, and as she cried she recalled everything that had happened to her over her lifetime. This was a good time to feel sorry for herself – no one else was with her. Once she had let this out, there would be no more self-pity.

She mouthed the words as she thought them, cradling her head in her hands. Her breaths came out as rugged, wheezy gasps, and her hair fell in front of her face, sticking to the tears.

_Mother. Drugs. Torture. Explosion. Drugs. Shooting. Michael. Roof. Pool. Pool. _

Then she couldn't breathe. _Pool. Pool. Moriarty. _

Gasping, she pressed the button frantically on the side of her bed. The one that rang for help.

She didn't necessarily need the help. She just wanted to know everyone was still alive.

* * *

Florence was discharged three days later. She would have been let out earlier, but she had had the panic attack, which caused her new therapist to reconsider.

Now, she sat nervously in the chair opposite her new therapist, her hands fidgeting under the table, unseen by the man before her.

'So,' he said, placing his elbows on the desk, 'how are you liking being out of hospital?'

'I was only in there a week and four days.' she answered, feeling like a child in the presence of this man, who's superiority was obvious.

'That's enough to feel trapped. How's your leg?'

'It doesn't hurt anymore.'

'Good,' the man said, nodding. Florence tried desperately to remember his name. She had been told, but it was in a moment of panic as she was told she was going to start going to a therapist by the nurse looking after her. 'Would you like to tell me why you think you're here?'

There was silence for a few minutes, and Florence listened to the ticking of the clock. 'Because I was kidnapped and tortured by a psychopath?' she then remembered- 'Twice?'

The therapist smiled. 'Perhaps, but that's not _why_ you're here. You're here because of the toll that your experiences has taken on your mental health.'

Florence nodded, slowly. 'Just those experiences?'

'Not if you don't think so.'

There was a moment of silence. _Tick, tock, tick, tock. _

'So. How is your relationship with your parents? Do you get along?'

Florence's hands froze, and she stiffened. She thought this man was supposed to know her past before helping her. 'They're dead.' she whispered. The man nodded. Something told her he already knew that.

'Okay. Tell me about that.'

_Oh, come on, Florence. Get a grip. You're okay. _'My father died when I was very little, in a... in a car crash. I had just started school. My mother wasn't really the same after that. She didn't really want to spend time with me, when I was at home, anyway. I didn't make friends imme...' - she closed her eyes, and swallowed - 'immediately at school – only Sherlock, when I was six or seven. I went round his house almost every day, to escape what I thought back then was just boredom. It turned out I was just... I was just _scared._

'This went on for years, maybe seven or eight. I can't remember. She would come home drunk, pour both of us a glass of whatever she brought home, and would... she would just sit there, tears just silently rolling down her face, unseeing, unhearing. Just taking the odd sip from her glass. I always poured mine down the sink or the toilet, along with the remnants of the bottle. She was, uh, never very happy about that.

'Some nights she didn't come home at all, so I would either spend them alone or would call Sherlock, depending on my mood. It was usually the latter, and he would always stay with me, or me... always stay with me or me with him – his father would come and collect me and take me home with them.

'Then, when I was fifteen, I think... she...' she broke off, unable to complete her sentence. She had noticed the stutter creeping up on her, one she thought she had lost years ago. The therapist kept listening, silently urging her to continue. 'she killed herself. Threw herself from a window, onto the pavement.'

He nodded. 'I asked you about your parents' deaths, however you strayed from the subject a bit before getting to your mother's death. Was that because you thought I wanted to hear that, or because you were trying to draw it out, so the blow at the end wouldn't be so hard?'

Florence looked at him, her eyes wide with realisation. 'Both.'

'Okay. Well, usually I tell people not to tell me things you think I want to hear, as it... hm. Have you ever left, say, a block of cheese out overnight?' Florence shook her head, slightly taken aback. 'Well, it goes somewhat transparent, hard, a and darker yellow. Then, even when you cut all that horrible hard stuff off, you're still aware the cheese still isn't right. That's what it's like. I need you to speak freely to me, saying only what you want to say, otherwise I'll always be aware the cheese isn't right.'

Florence cracked a small smile. 'So, what I'm saying is cheese?'

The therapist laughed. _What the fuck is your name?! _It was getting embarrassing now. Surely she would need to use it soon.'Yes. What you're saying is cheese. So, let's try that again – who is Sherlock Holmes?' His words were soft, but there was some urgency in his tone.

'He's my best friend. Or rather, the adult equivelant. I don't know if I'm his best friend too. I hope so.'

'And you said you've known him since you were six or seven?'

'I think so. We both got along really well – isolated, lonely little kids with odd brains. The only difference was he was so much older than me – both mentally and actually - I think our age gap is three years – and we were odd in different ways.'

'How are you odd?'

'Oh... I don't know. I'm floaty. My mind is often in other places, and when it's in the right places, I'm desperately wishing it was somewhere else. People at school used to say I was a witch. They thought I was...' she let out a nervous laugh and switched the cross of her legs, 'contacting people. The dead, and that. And I liked that accusation. I was _that_ kind of weird.'

'I don't think that's weird. I think you were maybe trying to escape something. Maybe your home life. Does that sound about right?'

'Probably. But I had other things to distract myself. I had books, mainly poetry. I wrote it, too. Not very well, but anything that rhymed I sort of just wrote down.' she laughed again, running her moist palms down her jeans. 'I sung, too... and then there was Sherlock.'

'Ah, yes – Sherlock Holmes. I've seen him on the news recently – he's really something, isn't he?' She nodded. The therapist smiled. 'Tell me more about your relationship with him.'


	18. chapter18

'How was that?' Sherlock asked Florence as she limped into the flat. She smiled, shrugging.

'It was as good as any therapy session would be.'

'I wouldn't know, I've never been to one.'

'Yeah, well, you don't want mine.' Florence said, still smiling. Sherlock's face darkened.

'Why not?'

'He's too smiley. Tries too hard to be funny. Compared the information I was giving him to _cheese.'_

'Huh. Maybe he needs his own therapy sessions.'

Florence giggled, placing her crutches beside her and lowering herself onto the sofa, wincing as she did so.

'Not feeling any better, then?' John asked, making Florence jump. She hadn't noticed he was in the room, but there he was, sitting in his red armchair. She shook her head.

'No. I doubt they will for a while – broken bones don't disappear overnight.'

Florence frowned, seemingly remembering something, and Sherlock eyed her carefully. He knew what she had said to him in the hospital when she had first come back. About all the pain from her broken bones being gone when she had woken up, the day after. Instead of speaking, she nodded, still frowning.

'Yeah.' she eventually said. 'Anyway, how's the case going? Figured out how that man died?'

'Yep, and got the photographs back.' Sherlock said, watching with a smirk as John frowned, still staring at his computer screen. 'Then lost them again by being drugged by an apparent evil prostitute who made a very interesting first impression. You'd have liked her, Florence. And by that I mean, you would have _really_, really hated her.'

'Wonderful.' Florence replied, grimacing. 'Where is she now?'

'Oh, we don't know. She returned my coat back to the flat, and now she's off hiding somewhere. Keeps sending me texts. I don't suspect we'll see her for a while, she's not leaving much of a trace. It's really quite annoying, because now I'll have Mycroft banging on at me until I find them.'

'Oh, yes – national importance.' John said, his voice smirking but his face remaining neutral.

'Oh, Mycroft.' Florence grinned. 'Haven't seen him yet.'

Sherlock snorted. 'You will. If I don't update him tomorrow he'll be 'round here, his umbrella taking up half the bloody floorspace.'

'Probably moaning at you again,' John chimed in, looking up from his computer.

'Then complaining about the quality of the chairs?' Florence offered, wondering if he still did that.

Sherlock's eyes widened with amusement as he remembered. 'Oh! Yes. He hasn't done that in a while. Either the chairs or my playing, both of which displeased him beyond belief.'

'Only cause he couldn't play.'

'He can't play anything. Only board games, only because it gets boring so I let him.'

'Oh, God. Remember that chess game that went on for four days?' Florence said, rolling her eyes.

'Wait, four solid days?' John asked, leaning forward in his chair.

Sherlock grinned as he recalled. 'He wouldn't give in. I had his queen, six of his pawns, his rooks, one of his bishops, and both the knights. I kept _almost_ getting him in checkmate, but he would sit for hours at a time, pondering his next move. It was a ghastly situation to be in.'

'Then I burned the board.'

'Oh, yeah. Florence performed a little Satanic ritual, warning us that if we ever played chess again, she would personally rip us to shreds.'

'The question is, though, did you honour that ritual?'

'Of course.'

'Brilliant. Because I forgot.'

* * *

Florence didn't remember spending Christmas like people usually celebrated Christmas. She remembered sharing it instead with people she loved, drinking and eating and doing everything real people didn't do around the holiday.

She had only ever spent Christmas at the Holmes Manor, which was completely different to what normal people might've called fun.

Florence enjoyed every second of it. There were no presents, barely, just dinner and a hilarious array of different games, each one uniquely challenging, both mentally and physically (only when Twister, or Charades were involved, as Mycroft liked to do completely unknown stagewrites that he would be miming for ages), and no two were ever played the same. Each year, the rules would change, a new part added, something else that would leave Florence in stitches.

Then, in the evenings, were the songs – Mrs Holmes would play the piano, Sherlock the violin, Mycroft wound up on a tambourine and Mr. Holmes and Florence would sing. They would create rounds, harmonise and share parts. Mr. Holmes had an almost operatic voice, and Florence's was powerful, and both could reach unrealistic pitches. They would often compete – see who could go the highest, Mycroft judging. Sherlock usually won, doing some strange harmonic that would leave the room gasping or covering their ears in anguish.

However, when her mother died, it took a few years before she would sing properly again. Then she went away completely, and Sherlock suddenly hated Christmas.

Arthur wasn't really into fun – not in an Oliver Cromwell way, he just didn't really see the need, for festivities at least, so Florence lost the element that the holiday brought. She didn't remember enjoying herself.

But, this year, they were invited back to the Manor.

Sherlock had asked her with some dread, hoping beyond hope she'd say yes. He had missed Christmasses with her almost as much as she had missed them altogether.

She had accepted nervously, and for the entire journey was anxious about what Mr. and Mrs Holmes might think of her. She hadn't seen them yet, after ruining their son's life. She then reasoned that if they hated her, she wouldn't have been invited.

She had improved massively since the pool. Her sessions with her therapist were becoming fun. His name was Spencer, she had learned, admittedly after he had mimicked someone calling to him. They would play little mind games, ones that could help Florence remember, or overcome. Every single time, he would tell her that the thing she had cried about during the session wouldn't come back. She was beginning to believe him.

Her physical state was back to normal. She had cut a fringe, and it now completed her face in the same way it had done before. The little make-up she wore around her eyes brought them out, made the green almost shine. Her cheeks looked fuller. She looked healthy.

As well as this, her mental health was improving. Panic attacks had reduced to less than three times a week.

John had gone to spend Christmas with his family, as was expected, and Florence wasn't quite used to being alone with Sherlock for any amount of time, not yet. However, they were only there for two days, then had a little party planned at the flat with their closest friends when they got home, which she was quite excited about. She had missed celebrations.

'Remember,' Florence muttered as they walked up the little path of Sherlock's parents' little cottage, noticing that they had seriously downsized, 'no fucking chess.'

Sherlock smirked, and rung the doorbell. Florence found herself hiding slightly behind his tall frame and broad shoulders, and he sighed. 'I really wouldn't be worried. They missed you... to _bits_.' he said, imitating the phrases she said that he had found annoying.

Florence grinned and moved away, just as the door opened, and Mycroft stepped out.

'Oh, dear Lord. I hoped you wouldn't show up. We're not going to make this a thing, are we? A _tradition_?' he muttered. He didn't wait for an answer as he stepped past, nodding at Florence in greeting before pulling out a cigarette. Florence raised her eyebrows at Sherlock. There he was, having not seen her for nearly nine years, and he barges past her with a cigarette. Sherlock smirked back. _Classic Mycroft_.

'Ohh, there he is!' she heard the sound of Mrs Holmes' voice, and her heart instantly dropped to her shoes in a mixture between anxiety and excitement. She came out, dressed as colourful as Florence remembered, her pale blue eyes glinting with the joy of seeing her son.

He accepted her hug, if a little stiffly, and Florence was surprised to be hugged as well, as warmly as she had embraced Sherlock. Then, she held the girl at arm's length, surveying her.

'Well, my dear, haven't you grown?' she said, her face lit with a smile.

Florence grinned in return. 'Just a little.'

* * *

'Did you send her a text?' James asked, his voice bored. He knew the answer would be no.

'No.' Arthur replied, and James nodded. They were sitting on some plastic crates, fashioned in a circle around a small fire in a metal rubbish bin. They sure knew how to live.

'Are you going to?'

'It depends.'

'On what?'

'On whether or not she sends one to us. She told us to stop trying.'

'Oh, come on, Arthur!' James exclaimed, standing, and Arthur looked up at him in confusion. 'Just fucking do it. Two words. Means _so_ much.' he said, and walked off.

* * *

Florence had never experienced joy like this.

She was sitting with people she very much considered her family, around a large piano in the Holmes' living room. She hadn't sung in years, but was pleasantly surprised to find she still had that power she had as a teenager, singing Christmas ballads with Mr. Holmes, Sherlock playing intricate violin solos that Florence could never dream of playing, Mrs Holmes playing a rhythm on the keys, and Mycroft uselessly banging a tambourine.

She felt at home again. The lighting was dim, lit only by a large amount of candles on the piano's top. The smell was overly familiar – spicy, the smell Florence associated with the colour red. The room was filled with noise, with smiles, and the occasional laugh, mainly when Florence's voice cracked or Mr. Holmes forgot some of the words.

At one point, Sherlock glanced up from the fret board of his violin and his eyes met with Florence's. Her eyes were shining in the candlelight, and although the look lasted for a fleeting second he could have sworn there were tears rolling down her cheeks. She was smiling, laughing – so he smiled too.

* * *

12:53 pm

Arthur: Merry Christmas.

21:19 pm

Florence: You too.

Arthur: How are you doing?

Florence: Okay, thank you

Arthur: …

Arthur: is that it? Just okay?

Florence: No. Today was good. I'm happy today.

Arthur: Trés bien.

Florence: I miss speaking French.

Arthur: speak it then

Florence: No. It feels forced now.

Arthur: You're weird

Florence: thank you

Arthur: I have to go. Á bientot?

Florence: are you trying to learn?

Florence: you forgot the accent.

Arthur: my keyboard doesn't support the accent

Florence: get a better keyboard, then!

Florence: Mais, oui, d'accord. Á bientot. You'll have to google translate that. x

* * *

Florence hadn't heard much at all about Irene Adler. She knew she was a sex worker, quite a popular one, who had... _served_ a member of the royal family, taken some pictures, and that the royal family now desperately wanted those photographs back. Apart from all that, Sherlock had kept surprisingly quiet about it all. He even took on different cases, much to Mycroft's annoyance.

However, Florence still heard that text alert.

It wasn't daily, not any more, but it still made her shudder. She didn't even know why, something about the frankly inappropriate ringtone made her actually want to jump out of a window.

So, after Sherlock had made an utter fool of himself at their little Christmas party, she became slightly more upset by the fact that Irene Adler had texted him.

Again.

Florence was never one for jealousy – but now she had _two_ girls, and John, to compete against for Sherlock.

Even thinking that sentence made her annoyed at herself, so she tried to think it as little as possible, which was easier said than done.

Sherlock's face, upon reading the text, had fallen, causing her to frown. She stood from her spot on the sofa, notibly the furthest away from the alcohol she could be, and shot him a look when he picked up one of the apparently decorative presents on the mantelpiece. He looked at it, and Florence saw with some dismay that it was wrapped exactly how Molly Hooper's had been wrapped, indicating, as he had deduced, a longing for him.

Not that that bothered her at all, their relationship was purely platonic. That's what she kept telling herself. It was a bit of a lie.

He excused himself quietly and she caught his eye. He shook his head slightly as John called out after him. Then John looked at Florence, frowning. She shrugged, and he pulled a face. He made to go after him.

'John-' she attempted to stop him, but he had already gone. All remaining eyes turned to her, and she closed her own slightly in frustration. Then she offered a quick, meaningless smile before following both her flatmates out of the room.

Sherlock was on the phone, and he held a phone in his hand. She didn't recognise it, but, having been told about the somewhat interesting case they were on, she had a pretty good guess as to who's it was.

'You're going to find Irene Adler tonight.' he said, his voice grim. If she listened carefully, she could here the whiny drone of Mycroft on the other end.

'No. You're going to find her dead.'

-

**merry christmas :)**


	19. chapter19

Florence felt as though she was missing out. She desperately wanted to join in on Sherlock and John's case, but found that whenever she offered, John would shoot her down:

'You're not well enough. Rest up, please. You're not doing yourself any favours.'

Still, every time she stepped foot outside it would only take about an hour for her emotions to catch up, and she would have to go back inside. It was safe to say she was scarred for life.

After Christmas, everything died down a little. Apparently the Adler woman was dead, and that was taking it's toll on the man Florence thought she knew so well – as it was _so_ clear he had some sort of feeling toward her, and not the utter loathing he portrayed.

This quiet time gave Florence time to get to know her best friend again. Every evening, she would sit and listen to him play, or yell at the television, and occasionally she would speak to him. She felt now as if she had to be his rock, instead of him being hers, as he had been for the past few months.

It was within one of these evenings they had one particularly interesting, rare conversation.

John was out. Florence didn't know where he had gone, she just knew he _wasn't_ home, which was all that mattered.

Sherlock had just put down his violin. His final note rang around Florence's head, a swift flourish that had barely lasted a second. He had sat himself down forcefully on his black leather armchair, whilst she was on her spot on the sofa, where a sheet, some pillows and a blanket always sat, ready for her to use them. He had crossed his legs.

'I'm sorry.' he muttered out of nowhere, breaking the comfortable silence they had been sitting in for a few minutes.

'Sorry for what?'

'For not understanding your hints.'

Florence's eyes widened as her heart began to beat faster. She forced a laugh. 'What brought this on?'

'Irene Adler's death.'

'What about it?'

'It made me think of when you disappeared.'

Florence stood and moved to John's chair so she could see him better. His eyes had been cast towards the fireplace, but now he looked at her.

'I realised I can't afford to lose you again.'

'Why would you lose me again?' She asked, frowning. Sherlock uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in the chair. Florence mimicked his actions.

'I don't know. I just thought I should tell you.'

'I'm not going anywhere.'

'Which is why we need to talk about it.'

Sherlock didn't need to explain what he had just said. Florence knew. She sat back, feeling her cheeks grow hotter. That kiss was ages ago. Why did he only bring it up now?

'I wondered how long it'd take you.'

'It's not that I don't understand.'

'But...'

'But I don't understand _why_.'

'Because...' Florence trailed off, apparently finding the confidence to carry on. 'Because you mean everything to me. And all that time I spent away was just proof that I couldn't live without you.'

Sherlock looked away, at the fireplace. His hand moved to his face.

'I know that is probably hard for you to... digest.'

'I'm doing surprisingly well.'

Florence laughed. 'That you are.'

'It's just strange timing, is all. Because the other day I was thinking about the pool. If Moriarty had killed you,' Florence had looked away, and her heart rate had quickened. She breathed deeply. 'and what measures I would have gone to to make sure he died too.'

She looked back at him, her forehead creased. Then she looked back at the fireplace. 'I wish he were dead.'

Sherlock looked at her like one might look at a friend when they've just lost a close friend or family member.

'What did he do to you?' he asked, barely whispering. 'What did he do to make you so _scared_?'

He watched with some regret and guilt as her eyes began to glisten.

'It can't have been anything more physical, it would have shown up when the hospital ran those tests. It couldn't be drugs or anything related for exactly that reason – so what did he do?'

'It was... mental.' she said, closing her eyes. Sherlock frowned, surprised she was actually talking about it. 'He made me think you were dead. For an hour. Then, when I heard your voice, he made me believe I was imagining it. All this time, I was freaking out. Whenever I looked down I saw blood everywhere. I was tied to a chair, and a psychopath was singing nursery rhymes to me, and I-'

She had begun to cry now, properly. She brought her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them. 'I'm sorry. But I really believed you were gone. That's why it didn't matter when he-' she put her hand to her mouth, to stifle the sobs that were coming from it.

Sherlock slid off his seat, and knelt in front of her, placing his hand on her other hand. His eyes were still sad, but he really wanted her to open up. He figured that if she couldn't talk to him, he couldn't talk to anyone.

'What did he do?' he asked, slightly more forcefully than before.

'He put a gun to my head, and made it seem like he was going to kill me. I didn't care at that point, I _wanted_ death. Then he didn't, and made me believe I was going to live. That's what scared me the most...'

Sherlock was frowning, and his grip on her hand loosened. When she didn't continue, he prompted her again. 'What scared you the most?'

'That I was going to live in a world without you.'

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, just for a second. He released her hand, and sat back on his chair. Suddenly, everything made sense. The kiss, her secrecy, her _awkwardness_. Her fear. _Everything_ made sense. He had said he understood the hints, but now everything was far clearer. It _made sense_. And the worst part is, she had said that all before, not three minutes ago.

Florence Wood was in love with him.

He smiled, gently. Warmly, even. A strange, tingly feeling spread over his chest and into his stomach. He didn't like this feeling, but it made him smile anyway.

'Please say something. You smiling like that is actually scaring me.' she said, her voice deadpan. Sherlock started laughing.

Florence sniffed, a smile creeping across her face. She wiped her eyes with her jumper sleeve. The colour of the jumper made her tears look like blood.

Sherlock was still laughing, and Florence reached over to hit him. 'This is _not_ how I want to remember this.' she said. Sherlock stopped laughing, but there was still a grin on his face.

'I'm only laughing,' he said, his eyes glistening. 'because I have felt exactly the same way about you for so long, I never thought I'd shake it off. Now I don't have to.'

Florence looked at him in awe. 'For how long?'

'I don't want to say.'

'Please. I've just told you everything.' she said, wiping another tear from her eye.

'True. It was... please don't think badly of me for this-'

'I won't. Don't worry.'

'It was when your mother died.'

Florence smiled. 'All that time.'

'I never stopped. Even when you were gone. I've never felt like this, nor will ever feel this again, about anyone. I've hated every second of it.'

'You're such a robot.'

'A robot that can smile?'

Florence laughed, and Sherlock joined in. It was such a rare occurance, them actually laughing together.

'Thank you.' she smiled sadly, once the laughter had died down.

'For what?'

'For telling me. I know this must have been hard.'

'You're the one that told _me_.'

'But you didn't shut me out. I know you, Sherlock. You shut people out, when they show even the slightest hint of emotion towards you. I keep thinking this isn't real, that I'm dreaming.'

'I would never shut you out.'

'I'm holding that against you for the rest of your life.'

* * *

Weeks passed, and nothing happened. Nothing at all. It was as if Florence and Sherlock's conversation had never happened. They never brought it up, not to anyone. Sherlock only asked about Moriarty occasionally.

He had, essentially, blocked her out. She knew it wasn't his fault. But what she had said scared him, she was certain - even though he felt the same way. She didn't even want to tell him what he said, about how he would never block her out. She didn't have the courage. Every morning, when she would wake up, he'd be on his chair – either toughening his bowstrings with rosin, or quietly tuning his violin, or reading the newspaper. Never something that would wake her up.

It was on one of these mornings, when she woke up to find not only John and Sherlock in their respective chairs, but another woman, _the_ Woman, sitting on a wooden chair next to the desk.

Florence had never met this woman before. She had never even seen her. But the second she _did_ see her, she knew precisely who, and _what_, she was.

She sat up quickly, pulling the covers of her makeshift bed – she had moved back down from her room to the couch, since she had broken her leg and couldn't get up two flights of stairs, but now she was better again she felt she just preferred it – tight to her chest. This was habit: once anyone unfamiliar was in her presence as she slept, she would become defensive.

'Morning, Florence.' Sherlock said, bow in hand. He was sitting quite casually in his chair, as if he was unaware of what was going on.

'What did I miss?' she asked, very aware she was wearing only a vest and some shorts. She wrapped the covers around her shoulders to hide the scars that adorned her shoulders and collarbone. Sherlock watched her with concern. He hated seeing those scars.

'Nice to meet you.' the Woman smiled. 'I'm Irene. I know a lot about you.'

'I know who you are.' Florence said, careful to keep her voice calm. 'and who told you?'

'No one important.'

Florence glared. 'Who. Told. You?'

'Now now, Florence.' Sherlock warned.

Irene smirked. 'It's okay. I didn't want to see him again. He wouldn't put his gun away.'

Florence had no clue whether she meant that sexually or literally.

'Why are you _here_?'

'That's a brilliant question.' Sherlock said, and flung his bow down on the floor beside him, standing hastily. He then walked into the kitchen and took something out of a test tube, ran it under the cold tap, and threw it into the fridge. Then he retraced his steps, fell back into his chair and stared intently at the Woman.

'Because people want to kill me.'

'And who's that?'

'Killers.' Irene sounded serious, and Florence smiled in amusement.

'It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific.' John muttered.

'So you faked your death in order to get ahead of them.' Sherlock stated.

'Mm. It worked for a while.'

'Then you let John know you were alive, therefore me.'

'I know _you'd_ keep my secret.'

'You couldn't.'

Florence slipped out of the room, only earning a look from Sherlock as she did so. No one else seemed to notice. She had left her blanket behind, in a little heap on the sofa.

* * *

_The streets spun. They weren't that same slate grey colour that they usually were – the colours were changing uncontrollably, the streets fluctuating. It was getting harder to walk. She wondered what the fuck she'd just taken._

_Florence didn't want to go back her dorm. She couldn't face the snarky comments, the insufferable people. She didn't even want to see Sherlock. _

_Aware that Mycroft was probably watching her, she tried to act normal. She walked with a straight back, tried to ignore the ground moving. She made it as far as the alleyway leading to the next street before she threw up. _

_She checked her phone. It was only three thirty. _

_This wasn't good. She couldn't go back now. She couldn't risk seeing anyone she knew. Not like this. They'd start asking questions. Especially Sherlock... the way he'd been acting recently, he didn't want to see her at all, never mind as high as a kite. It would drive him up the wall. He might even get angry. _

_She thought long and hard about what she was about to do. Then, as memories from her mother's suicide crept up on her... she simply did not go home._

* * *

**I love little heart-to-hearts like these. they're fun. **


	20. chapter20

She could still hear murmering voices behind her, as she hastily pulled on clothes in the bathroom that she had left in a small, neat pile by the sink the night before. She wasn't sure if anyone heard her leave the flat, but she preferred it that way. She'd probably get a concerned text from Sherlock, a few phone calls from John.

She hadn't been out of the flat for more than two hours since Christmas. Even then she felt edgy, as if someone was going to jump out from behind a toadstool or something like that. Now, it was as if she was walking straight through a sea of assassins, each to their own.

She made her way up Baker Street, towards Picadilly Circus. She missed the hustle. It was nearly April, and still cold enough to wear a jacket. The streets were busy today, and she wondered what was going on.

Nearing Picadilly Circus, she could hear a busker singing. The sound of life filled her ears, and it felt as if a muffle had been lifted off. She felt connected with the world again.

Looking around, she couldn't really see anywhere she could sit properly, every café was full, and all along the streets leading from where she was looked just too busy.

She felt her pocket buzz, alerting her to a text. That'd be Sherlock, asking where she was. That made sense. She got out her phone to answer before seeing a black-clad figure moving hastily across the road. She recognised the sillhouette, and began to move in their direction, her heart beating fast.

She followed the man, as it soon became apparent it was definitely the man she was thinking of, all the way down Regent Street, before winding in a small alleyway, with no way out. Florence hesitated by the entrance, but she knew who it was, so followed him inside.

'Long time, no see.' the voice sent shivers down her spine.

'Arthur.' she said, clenching and unclenching her fists in anxiety. She couldn't see him, and turned to find him.

'In fact, bloody long time.'

'I know.'

'So long, in fact, that you told us to fuck off.'

'I didn't say that.'

'You said that but politer. Why is that, Florence? Why don't you want to talk to us? Because we know what you are? What you _did_?'

'No, nothing like that-'

'I think it is.'

'They don't scare me anymore, your threats. They're empty.'

'I'm not so sure about that.'

'I've missed you.' she said, trying to smile. What appeared was more of a pained grimace. 'I have-'

'Save the bullshit, Florence.'

'Hear me out, Arthur.' she retaliated. 'I have what you want.' her heart rate quickened as she lied through her teeth. She had become a good liar, so good that Sherlock Holmes wouldn't suss her out. 'Not here, not with me, but I have it.'

Arthur stepped forward, his facial expression dead. 'Of course you have it. You've had it all along.'

'No. It got taken from me. But it's mine again, now, okay? And it's staying mine. You don't have to worry.'

'I'd reconsider that statement, if I were you.'

'Not scary.'

'Not trying to be.'

'Yes you are.'

'No I'm not.'

Florence started to giggle, despite herself. 'Look at you, fucking six foot two, looking down at me like that, the shadows hiding your eyes, you're trying to scare me.'

Arthur smiled warmly. He opened his arms, and she accepted his embrace. 'I missed you too.' he said, putting his chin on the top of her head. 'It's been eight months.'

'Yeah, well, it's been a year and a half and Sherlock still isn't used to my presence.' Florence sighed.

'No?'

'I'm really trying to make it feel like I never left. I've been joking and all that. But when he comes into the living room in the morning, and my shoulders are exposed because I can't control them being covered in subconsciousness, he sees those fucking scars, and it all comes back to him, you know? I haven't even told them how I got them.'

'By them I suppose you mean Doctor Watson as well?'

'Mhm. And Mycroft.'

'Do you want to tell them...?

'Yeah. I really do. But I _can't_.'

'And you'd tell them about you, as well? What you used to do?'

'Yes. But again, I can't. I really do want to tell them. So maybe your threats would be useful.'

'I wouldn't worry about my threats.' he said, his voice deep. 'they're meaningless.'

'How're James and Michael?'

'Eh, I don't know. Haven't seen them in two weeks.'

'What?!' Florence exclaimed, pulling away and looking up at the man before her.

'Yeah. I got a bit hot-headed. They didn't like it.'

'Oh, Arthur. I'm sorry.'

'It didn't mean as much to me as I thought it would have done. Now, though...' he looked down at Florence, smiling slightly. 'It's cold. Do you want to get coffee?'

* * *

Sherlock looked at the Woman, who's eyes were seductive. He sighed slightly. He could see right through her, and he wondered why she couldn't see through him. Surely, his pretending to be attracted to her would be plainly visible to anyone?

His phone buzzed on the arm of the chair next to him, and he looked over at it. _Met Arthur in Picadilly. Getting coffee. Don't stay up. F x_

He smiled.

'Something funny?'

'Florence has met a friend. Hasn't seen him in a while. She told me not to wait up, even though it's only ten in the morning, suggesting she won't be home for... a while.'

'I didn't even notice her leave.'

'I believe that's the point. Who told you what you know about her?'

'If I told you that, it would hurt her. I'm not in the mood for hurting people today.'

_Ah. _Sherlock thought. _That doesn't sound good_. 'I believe I have a right to know.'

'Do you? That's interesting.'

Sherlock sighed in frustration. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Irene smirk. 'Fine. We'll try a different approach. _What_ do you know about her?'

'I know she was gone for a while, eight years. I know that she nearly overdosed six times, and she got up to some... nasty business. Nothing particularly harmful... to her. To others?' she let out a small laugh. 'I can't imagine why anyone would have wanted to mess with her.'

'What do you mean?'

'Ah, storytime's over for now. I'm sure she'll tell you in good time.'

_That _really _doesn't sound good._

* * *

Florence didn't quite know what to make of this new development. It was strange.

First, Arthur was alone. He was never supposed to be alone. He always _needed_ people with him. But, now that James and Michael were gone, he didn't have people anymore. She wondered if that's why he found her, to reconnect with someone. Maybe he was lonely.

Second, she had just told him one of the biggest lies she'd ever told.

Arthur wanted something from her. It was something that meant a lot to both of them, as it guaranteed their protection. She had told him that she had it, that it would never leave her. She was lying, and she thought he knew it. The problem was, because she didn't have it, it meant someone else had it. But with this particular thing, if it got into the wrong hands, it could do a lot of damage.

It was the proof that she was a murderer.

* * *

Sherlock played with the memory stick in his hands, turning it over and over in his fingers. To him, this memory stick was a storm. A large, dark cloud loomed over it, one that would spill over and cause the heavens to open once brought up. Not for him, but the storm that was about to be released on his best friend was one that could destroy a country.

He thought it a little foolish for Irene Adler to have gone out, but he was thankful for it. He presumed she had gone to meet someone, but didn't want to know who. It was probably a client. He shuddered, not wanting to think about what she was doing.

He had had this memory stick for a while now, nearly half a year. He had been sent it, in an expensive envelope. He knew it was from Moriarty, which made him concerned as to the contents. He had hesitantly downloaded it after Irene's conversation with him, and the outcome was not one he particularly liked the sound of.

He waited patiently, memory stick wound in between his fingers, in the cosy, dimly lit living room of his home. Outside, the traffic buzzed, with the occasional loud noise – a tire screech, a honking horn. Typical London noises. It comforted him.

He eventually heard the front door open, and his heart plummeted. He really did not like what he was about to do – what he was about to inevitably discover.

Florence walked into the room, her face unreadable. She didn't smile at him, which he thought to be odd. She immediately noticed the state of her friend, and then the memory stick in his hand. She frowned.

'What's that?'

'You tell me.' he muttered, standing abruptly. He brushed past her, knocking his shoulder into hers. She quickly and expertly took the stick from his fingers as he went by, and inspected it.

She dropped her hands by her side, and turned to face him in the kitchen. 'I was going to tell you.'

'When?' he said, his voice picking up.

'When it was the right time.'

'When was the right time, Florence? When could possibly be the right time to drop something like this on me?' he walked slowly towards her, and his voice was angry. Florence had seen her fair share of anger before, but this one hit her harder. It hurt more.

'When you had finished-'

'I've finished cases before, Florence!'

'Maybe I couldn't fucking tell you!' she yelled back. Her voice cracked a little, and it was hoarse.

'Why?'

'Have you ever had to tell someone who means that much to you that you killed people?'

'What do you think?' Sherlock thrust his arms into the air, signifying his feelings.

They both heard Mrs' Hudson's fragile footsteps coming up the stairs. Florence closed her eyes, holding her breath, and Sherlock let out a furious breath.

'Is everything ok-'

'Not now, Mrs Hudson!' they chorused, each with the same amount of aggression, not looking at her. The woman looked quite shocked, but she got the message and scuttled back where she had come from.

'Why did you do it?'

Florence felt the hot tears of frustration spring to her eyes, and she wiped them harshly. 'It wasn't for fun.'

Sherlock scoffed.

'It wasn't! These were bad people.'

'I've read each and every one of their case files. There was nothing against them. No criminal record, no-' he stopped as he realised the truth. 'Oh.'

Florence wiped another tear from her eyes. 'What?'

'Were these the men...' He thought back to when she was telling him about when she was attacked. She said there were seven of them, all in their early thirties, who had jumped her. She never mentioned anything more serious than being attacked, but he had had his suspicions, and these were brought to light. 'They didn't do anything more than hurt you, did they?'

Florence breathed in shakily. She was relieved, now that Sherlock understood. 'Barely. They tried to undress me, but when I put up a fight they resorted to breaking every bone in my body instead. Then, by the time they had finished, I was dead meat anyway. They told me I wouldn't be "as fun".'

Sherlock stared. He was thinking too hard to make his face do anything else. He realised with some sadness that his best friend was far more broken than he thought, and she had the mental scars to prove it.

'This stick had things against Arthur, too. And the others. Did they help you?'

'Once Arthur understood my situation, he knew it had to be done. The others refused, and his brother wasn't particularly keen-'

'Brother?'

'Mhm. Lucian. He's like the Mycroft of Arthur.'

'Poor man.'

Florence smiled through her tears. Her face was burning. Was this normal? 'Yeah.'

'Is this the thing you had, that they wanted? That you couldn't give back?'

'Yes. I couldn't give it back because I didn't have it.'

Sherlock nodded. 'You kept this a secret from me, even though it makes sense. Well, it doesn't make complete sense, why not just report them instead of kill them, but-'

'I couldn't, remember? If Scotland Yard knew where I was, they'd bring me back. I wasn't ready, I was still bad.'

'Still don't quite understand that mindset, either. You knew I would have done everything to help you, like I will now.'

Florence smiled again. 'I'm sorry for not telling you.'

'I can understand why you wouldn't. But...' he breathed in, preparing himself for the cliché horrors that were about to escape his lips. 'If you need me, any time, I will always be here to talk.'


	21. chapter21

_23:58 pm_

Florence: You can have it, if you like.

Arthur: You said you weren't going to give it to me.

Florence: I changed my mind.

Arthur: Why?

Florence: because I'm better now.

Arthur: He knows, doesn't he?

Florence: Yes. He had it.

Arthur: What? How?

Florence: the man in the pool.

Arthur: Somehow, we should have seen that coming.

Florence: but now he can use that against us. All of us.

Arthur: That's something to worry about another day. Get some sleep, Flo. It's late.

Florence: Goodnight.

Arthur: Goodnight.

* * *

Florence was, in fact, unsurprised to find the Woman sitting in the same place she had been the morning before. This time, however, she was alone.

'Morning.' she said kindly, offering the girl sat up on the couch a weak smile.

'Hey.'

'You alright? Heard you and Sherlock had a little...'

'I'm fine, thank you.' Florence said, agitated. How did she know about that? 'Uh, Miss Adler-'

'Irene, please.'

'Irene. Please tell me, I'm desperate to know...' she didn't have to finish her sentence.

'Ah, yes, the anonymous donor, if you like. Goes by the name of Lucian Jackson.'

Florence frowned. 'Lucian?'

'Yes. Tall, blue eyes, dark hair. Quite good looking, if you ask me. Of course, though, I don't tend to enjoy them as much.'

'What, the good looking men?'

'No, the men.' Irene smiled, and Florence couldn't help but smile back, despite herself. She couldn't believe Lucian was the man who told Irene everything. Mainly because he didn't even know everything.

But then again, Florence didn't know just quite how much Irene knew. She might just have meant she knew about her relationships with Arthur and James, or her "errands". She didn't necessarily know about the murders.

This thought put her mind slightly more at rest, and she relaxed a little, pulling the blankets around her exposed shoulders.

'What about you?' she asked, and as Irene fixed her with a puzzled look she was quick to add, 'how are you? It can't be easy hiding.'

'You should know.' Irene grinned. She said it so casually, Florence didn't quite understand the severity of what she did say until a few seconds later. She frowned. 'Oh, don't worry. Honestly, your secret's safe with me. I think I've got enough to go on, with these pictures. I don't need anything else to protect me.'

Florence decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. This was immensely unlike her, to trust someone so easily, but it was something about the Woman's eyes that made her different. Maybe in a bad way, maybe in a good way, she hadn't quite decided.

'I do want to ask, however,' Irene continued, and Florence tilted her head to listen. 'what your deal is with Sherlock.'

'Thought you didn't like the men?' Florence offered with a smirk.

'He's an exception.'

'I'm warning you now, he's not the kind of person you want to... pursue. He is devoid of emotion. Completely gone. It's painful sometimes, to see just how dead he is inside, because it was the opposite when we were younger. But if you really want to take yourself down that route, the road to Hell, there's nothing between us, and I can say that with complete confidence because I have tried and failed.'

Irene nodded in understanding. They heard the door to Sherlock's bedroom open, and Irene placed a finger on her lips. Florence nodded in acknowledgement.

* * *

Florence knew something was up. Sherlock had told her to go out. Not harshly, but from some sort of understanding between the two of them, she asked no questions.

She left the flat, into the warm evening air. A taxi drove past, and she thought quickly about flagging it – then decided against it. She took out her phone, and called Arthur. He didn't pick up, and she texted him quickly, before calling James.

'_Hello?_'

'Hi.' she said. Her voice cracked hesitantly. 'Uh, Sherlock kicked me out for a bit-'

'_You okay?!_' James asked, his voice frantic.

'Oh!' she exclaimed, laughing slightly. She didn't quite hear how that sounded. 'Yes. He just needs to do something alone.'

'_Oh. Good. Okay. What you up to, then?'_

_'_I don't know.' she tucked her hair behind her ear.

'_You want to come 'round_?'

'Only if you want me to.'

James laughed. '_Sure. 'Course I do. I'm, uh, not with Arthur or Michael.' _

'I know. I've seen Arthur.'

James fell silent on the other end. '_He okay?_' he said eventually.

'Yes. He's lonely.'

'_Okay. I'm in a flat in Kensington. Is that okay?_'

'Mmm... bit far for a Friday night. It's dark, and all that...' Florence muttered, looking down. She was still stood outside Baker Street, and didn't want to go back inside.

'_Oh God, yeah, I'm sorry. Meet in the middle?_'

Florence's heart skipped a beat when she saw her friend on the opposite end of the coffee shop. She hadn't seen him in a very long time, not since the day of the pool. She shuddered, remembering the night, before walking slowly to sit on the chair opposite him.

His smile was familiar, and it made her feel warmer. She smiled back, placing her phone on the table.

'It's been an awful long time.' he said, and she nodded. 'How are you?'

'Better. Much better.' Florence replied quickly. 'You?'

'I'm good.' he said, laughing. 'You saw Arthur, then? Was he okay?'

'He was surprisingly okay. He sort of cornered me in alleyway, tried to intimidate me, but then I started laughing so he decided on a different approach. It was a much needed conversation, but when I got back from meeting him – Sherlock confronted me about the memory stick-'

'Wait, what? Sherlock knows about the stick?' James frowned, leaning forward in his chair, his arms on the table. Florence put her head in her hands.

'Mhm. Moriarty sent it to him, ages ago. It was only the other day he downloaded it. We had a bit of an argument, but it's okay now – he understands what happened and why.'

'Mm. Okay.' James said, disapprovingly. Florence hated it when he did that. He then gestured in a sort of "carry on" kind of way, so she did.

'It became okay very, very quickly. It didn't even take much explaining. He got the picture fast. John doesn't know.'

'Is that the doctor with the weird jumper?'

Florence laughed, but it was a bit more breathy than she expected. She realised she was still feeling very, very anxious, and she told herself to calm down. 'Yeah. His wardrobe mainly consists of those cardigans and jumpers. It's not much of a look.'

'Makes sense.'

'How have you been?'

'Pretty much the same. Michael and I went separate ways after we left Arthur, but we keep in contact constantly. I've missed living with him, to be honest – going from living with three other people, to two, to zero was quite hard... but I have a mate who had a spare place for me to crash.' As he said that, the last word, his voice slipped into an American accent. It was very slight, but it was enough to make Florence's heart drop, and her hands to start shaking. She put those thoughts aside, and decided she'd tell Sherlock once she got home. She clasped her hands together.

'Lucky.'

'Yeah.'

Florence's eyes fell down to her fumbling hands. She was growing more and more concerned.

'Why are you so jittery?' her heart skipped a beat.

'I don't know. Worried.'

'About?' _Quick, Florence. Lie. _

'Sherlock. I'm not quite sure what he's doing. The Woman is living with-'

'The Woman?'

'Long, long story. She's been with us for three days, and it's been a bit much, and Sherlock doesn't know how to deal with it, and then there was the whole thing with the memory stick...' Florence closed her eyes in frustration as she spiraled. 'I'm worried. He isn't himself, and I'm worried he'll do something stupid, that'll hurt him.'

'He needs to be able to take care of himself – and you.' James said sullenly.

'He does.'

'Are you sure? I know the past you two have, but I still don't trust him, Flo.'

'_Je sais_, James. Neither does Arthur. I'm choosing to ignore your antics.'

'_Je sais_, Flo.' James said, mocking her. She grinned. _He _was the one that grew up in France, _he_ was the one who could speak it fluently. 'But I'm just not sure, is all. He doesn't seem like the kind of person who'd be entirely trustworthy-'

'Why? Because of his line of work? He's working with Scotland Yard, who I'm pretty sure want your heads on silver plated plates?' Florence hissed, keeping her voice hushed. She was aware that she was in a public place.

'Partly.'

'What else, then? I'm intrigued.'

'Because, _darling_, he didn't try hard enough to find you. You were only in London, for Christ's sake. We didn't leave. You could've _easily_ been found, by anyone looking hard enough. Think about it.'

Florence's eyes widened for a split second, as his words hit her. 'But we tried not to be-' she whimpered, before James cut her off.

'I've heard what he can do. I've heard what he's _done. _Who he's found, the cases he's solved. The only way someone like him, with his extraordinary abilities, couldn't have found you, was if he wasn't looking hard enough.'

'Can we change the fucking subject? I've been found now. It's better.'

'It's as better as you think it is. I know you, Florence. I know you more than you think I know you. You wouldn't stand for this kind of treatment if you didn't love him. Remember that.'

'What kind of treatment? He's been a literal lifesaver.'

'Confronting you about the memory stick – it's none of his business. Telling you to get out of the house, into the evening, knowing that you can't deal with the dark. Taking you on dangerous outings, the last of which nearly got you _killed_, Flo.'

'None of this seems too bad to me, because I know the reasons behind it! And, if I'm not mistaken, that's _exactly_ what you did with me. You can't expect me to take your word for all this. It makes no sense that you care so much.'

'It puzzles you that I care about _you_?'

Florence stared. She hadn't noticed that's what he was doing. James laughed, but it wasn't a friendly laugh. It was his "fuck you" laugh. 'Yeah. Okay. You've spent too much time with him. You're turning into him now.'

Then he was gone before she could reply.

* * *

**Hm. If you've got it, very, _very_ well done. that's some real Sherlock Holmes worthy deduction there. if you remember that far back... **


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock closed his eyes.

It was over. It was all over. No more Irene Adler, no more _feelings_. He had not been able to concentrate on anything else, because of his _feelings_. They were all too much.

He had sent Florence away. He didn't want to deal with _her_, too. He loved her, a lot, but sometimes she was too much. She _felt_ too much. It was overwhelming. But now, he didn't know where she was, and didn't want to text her, just in case she was busy. He couldn't imagine she stayed idle for three hours.

He let his mind unfold, sitting in the black leather chair of his living room. He didn't know where John was – probably on another date. He hoped he was safe.

His eyes still closed, he thought over the events of the evening. Irene had been working with Moriarty. The whole time.

He should have known! He should have _deduced_! That was what he did, isn't it? If he couldn't even do that properly, what was the point of him?

Mycroft had told him not to beat himself up about it. He had replied ignorantly, saying that that was idiotic.

He had been wrong.

He heard the key turn in the door downstairs, and listened for signs of who it was. Judging by the heavy footsteps, and the hesitaton on each step, it was John.

Marvellous.

'You okay?' he asked, and Sherlock opened his eyes.

'Mm.' he replied, and stood abruptly. 'Seen Florence?'

'No, why? Isn't she here? Where... where's Irene?'

'Oh, she's gone. Turns out she was working for Moriarty the whole time. We assume she won't live for more than three weeks.'

'Oh.' John muttered. 'I'm sorry.'

'Why?' Sherlock spat, incredilous.

John stuttered, shocked by his friend's sudden mood change. 'Because...'

'Do you believe I actually _felt_ for this woman? Come on, John. I thought you knew me better.'

'Yes, I do know you better. I know you feel for Florence, don't you, Sherlock?'

'Hm?'

John jumped, and spun around. Florence stood at the door, her eyes narrowed. Sherlock hadn't heard her come in, but it couldn't have been soon after John. Her dark hair had fallen over her eyes, which were red-rimmed. She had been crying, but now was not the time to ask.

However, Sherlock did not think that was the case. 'You're upset.' he stated. Florence nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear.

'Yes.'

'And you're not trying to cover it up...'

'No.'

'What happened?'

Florence glanced at John, offering him a small smile. Then she looked back at Sherlock. 'Later.'

* * *

Truth be told, Florence was having a meltdown. It wasn't often this happened, not really, but everything James said, everything that had happened that evening, on top of his careless slip-up - she wasn't coping.

Sherlock hadn't looked hard enough. He _hadn't_. Even if she didn't want to be found, he still could have found her. He _could_ have done. But he _didn't_. Now, she was without the majority of her friends, who weren't friends anymore, and she felt more separated from Sherlock than she could ever have felt. They hadn't spoken to each other properly in days. It wasn't the same anymore, and it hurt her.

But then, when she thought about telling Sherlock about James' accent, and what happened at the Warehouse when she was chased – she didn't want to tell him, because of what James had said. This man, who meant so much to her, was getting into her head, and she didn't like it.

She didn't know how much more of this she could stand, in all honesty. She didn't want to live with Sherlock anymore. She didn't want to spend any time with _anyone_. It was confusing her, and she didn't know what to do.

She sat on the second to last step, by the door to the living room, her head in her hands.

'Hey.'

She looked up, automatically shuffling to the side so whoever was talking to her could get up the stairs.

John was standing in front of her, a cup of tea in his hands. He sat beside her. 'You okay?'

'Yeah.' she said, unconvincingly.

'What happened with you and your friend today? When you got back, you weren't particularly... pleased.'

'It's okay. Really. What James said – it made perfect sense. I'm just trying to wrap my head around it.' She refrained from telling him about the accent.

'What...' John began, knowing he was treading on thin ice. 'What did James say?'

'It was stupid. It really was.'

'You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I would really appreciate it, and it might help you, if you did.' John said. He said this to some of his patients sometimes, when they weren't comfortable with sharing their symptoms.

'It's not true. Any of it. But it's just working it's way through my head...'

'It's okay. You can tell me.'

'He said Sherlock could have found me if he wanted to, if he tried hard enough.'

'Oh...' John said, frowning. He took a thoughtful sip of his tea. 'You really believe he didn't?'

'I'm not sure.' Florence's head fell back into her hands. She rubbed her eyes with her palms. 'It's scaring me a bit.'

'Listen.' John said, his more serious voice replacing his soft one. 'Sherlock loves you more than he's ever loved anyone.'

'I think I know that – but what James said...'

'You can't let it get to your head. He searched so, so hard for you. Mycroft told me that he turned to drugs _because_ you were gone. You hurt him so, so much-'

'You're really not helping-'

'-which made him who he was today.'

'Are you actually trying to comfort me?'

John chuckled. 'What I'm trying to say is, he cares. A lot. Maybe too much.' Florence's eyes widened at him, and he rushed to correct himself. 'In a good way, of course.' he cleared his throat awkwardly. 'All this about Irene Adler... I don't know where she's gone, but I'm glad of it, honestly. She was a bit of a pain, in the end.'

'I'll say. You could cut the tension between them with a knife.'

John laughed, then sipped his tea. 'Yeah. It was scary.'

'Where did Sherlock go?'

'I don't know. Probably to bed. It's been a long, long day.'

'What happens now, that she's gone? What do you do?'

'What do _we_ do, do you mean?'

'You and Sherlock, yeah.'

John smiled. 'No. Me, Sherlock, and you.'

* * *

_Sherlock hadn't seen Florence in two days. _

_Ever since she went to university, the same as him, they had seen each other in passing, at least three times a day. They would go out for lunch, and they would spend the entire weekend together. _

_Now it was Saturday and there was no sign of her. _

_He wouldn't have thought this to be abnormal if it were anyone else. But, knowing Florence, she relied on him. He helped her in ways neither of them fully understood. _

_Recently, however, she had been acting strange. She wasn't nearly as talkative, and whatever they did talk about was not nearly as interesting or as in-depth as usual. She wasn't eating, which struck Sherlock as odd. She wasn't a particularly foody person, but she still ate normally. _

_Her eyes were sunken, and her cheeks more gaunt. _

_There was something wrong with her, but she was gone before he could ask her about it. _

_And that hurt him._

* * *

_Three weeks later_

Sherlock was not coping too well. He desperately did not want to say he was withdrawing, but... he was.

He was angrier. So much angrier. There were no cases, apart from all the boring ones, like the affairs, and the thefts. They weren't helping him.

He kept lashing out on people, yelling at them, then not talking for hours.

Florence was worried about him, and John was worried about both of them.

Every morning, he would leave for over three hours, then return in a state he definitely did not leave in. He would then moan for ages about how bored he was.

It was on one of these mornings, his prayer for an interesting case was answered by Henry Knight.

Florence shuddered. She had always hated trains. Ever since she was a little girl, she _hated _trains. In fact, she hated most methods of transport – she had just become accustomed to cars.

But now, as they boarded at Paddington Station, en route to Dartmoor, of all places – she told herself to get the fuck over it and get on the train.

They got a booth, and Sherlock got out his laptop immediately. He opened it, and started typing ferociously.

Florence laid her head against the window, and closed her eyes, willing the time to pass quickly. Sherlock ignored her, knowing her antics.

'Florence?' John asked quietly, ignoring her glance that said _shut up_.

'I'm fine. I'm just not too used to trains.' she said dismissively, and John left it at that.

The ride wasn't too rocky afterwards, and John noted how quickly Florence managed to fall asleep, and how peaceful she looked. Almost as if nothing had happened to her over the past ten years. Sherlock was watching her too, he noticed, but not in the way he was. Not in an inappropriate way, either, just... watching. John could tell that he, too, was marvelling at the way she slept. Untroubled. Controlled. And if John didn't know better:

Drugged.

* * *

**Baskerville! Finally!**

**I feel like I spent _years_ on the great game, and now this feels a lot nicer.**

**Also, I have noticed that the last few chapters have not had the little breakers in them, and I'm not even sure if this one will work, so I'm sorry for any confusion!**

**(Florence is fine, by the way)**


	23. Chapter 23

Dartmoor was bleak, to say the least. The roads stretched for miles over the hilly landscape, and as Sherlock drove them through it in a car that was built for worse terrain than a mildly muddy Devon, Florence rested her head on window of the back seat. She felt out of place, like she shouldn't have been there, and she found the silence between all three of them uncomfortable.

The way she saw it, and despite John's words a few weeks before, the two men at the head of the car were a duo. There was no place for someone like her – an ex-drug addict, however many years she had been clean, used to life on the run. But then, maybe this was exactly the type of person they were. She was sure that sometimes, they had to keep low. More often than not, she presumed. So maybe this was the perfect place for her.

She disliked her thought processes, so recited poetry in her head until they arrived.

Some time later, Sherlock randomly pulled off onto the side of the road, and got out of the car without voicing his intentions. John and Florence exchanged enquiring glances before following him.

'Get the map, John!' they heard from in front of them, the breeze carrying his voice away from them.

He climbed an outcrop of stone whilst John consulted the map.

'There's Baskerville,' he said, pointing in the direction the map showed. Sherlock turned to look, and Florence squinted into the distance. Her fringe was annoying her, getting caught in the wind. 'That's Grimpen Village.' he pointed somewhere else. 'So that must be... yeah, it's Dewer's Hollow.'

Sherlock stepped forward, as if that was supposed to aid his vision. 'What's that?' He asked, pointing.

John looked through his binoculars. 'Minefield?' he brought the binoculars down and turned to look at Sherlock. 'Technically Baskerville's an army base, so I guess they've always been keen to keep people out.'

Sherlock grimaced. 'Clearly.'

* * *

Grimpen Village lived up to it's name, as grim it was. It was mainly just meandering streets with small cottages which were probably ridden with rodents. In around the centre, Florence wasn't really concentrating, was a sweet little pub, named, as a lot of other pubs were named, the Cross Keys.

A sign outside it boasted 'Boutique Rooms and Vegetarian Cuisine'. Outside, a tour guide was whittling on about 'The Hound'. Florence raised her eyebrow as he talked about not going onto the moor at night. It sounded like a lot of bullshit to her, but they were here for that exact reason.

Despite the fact that it was early Summer, Sherlock was pulling his coat on. He flipped the collar swiftly, causing John to glance at him pointedly and Florence to giggle.

'I'm cold.' he said unconvincingly, stalking into the pub.

John decided that he would do the talking, since Sherlock obviously lacked the social skills. He booked three rooms for two nights, since he was aware this could all be over very soon. He figured he would be able to book some more time if it was required.

Whilst he was at the till, trying uselessly to convince the barman, Gary, that he and Sherlock were _not_ together, causing Florence to laugh, he spied a pile of receipts next to the till. He noticed with a frown that there was a large one at the bottom labelled 'Undershaw Meat Supplies'. Whilst Gary's back was turned, he quickly swiped it from the pile. Florence frowned, watching him, but her facial expression immediately turned back to normal as he turned back around.

'There you go,' he said cheerfully, placing three drinks and a key on the counter.

'Ah, I couldn't help noticing on the map of the moor – a skull and crossbones.' John said, trying not to make it obvious that he had taken the receipt.

'Oh, that, aye.' Gary said, his smile unfading.

'Pirates?'

Gary snickered. 'No, no. The Great Grimpen Minefield, they call it.'

'Oh, right.'

'It's not what you think. It's the Baskerville testing site. It's been going for eighty-odd years. I'm not sure anyone really knows what's there any more.'

'Explosives?'

'Not just explosives. Break into that place and – if you're lucky – you just get blown up, so they say...' he winced through his teeth and laughed. '… incase you're planning on a nice wee stroll.'

'Ta.' John said aimlessly, 'I'll remember.'

'Aye. No, it buggers up tourism a bit, so thank God for the demon hound.' he laughed slightly, moving away from behind the counter to the front of it. He moved over to a table and moved some glasses. 'Did you see that show, the documentary?'

'Yes, quite recently, actually.' John said, recalling the documentary Henry Knight – their client – had shown them when he came to Baker Street.

'Aye. God bless Henry Knight and his monster from Hell.' Gary muttered, coming back round to face John.

'Ever seen it?' John said without really thinking, earning a slight look from Sherlock. 'The hound.'

'Me? No.' Gary said, but he pointed out the door where the tour guide was standing on his phone. 'Fletcher has. He runs the walks – the Monster Walks for the tourists. He's seen it.'

Sherlock turned and walked out of the pub, towards Fletcher. Behind him he could still hear the bartender talking, along with a new voice who said something about twitter, then muttered: 'We're out of WKD.'

He surveyed the tables around him and, picking up a half-drunk beer from a table, walked up behind Fletcher in a manner that one would expect from a pub garden.

'Mind if I join you?' He asked. Fletcher shrugged and used his arm to gesture towards the table. 'It's not true, is it? You haven't actually seen this... hound thing.' he said, smiling in a way he probably thought was friendly, but was almost definitely more menacing. It was quite obvious he was pretending, to anyone that knew him well.

'You from the papers?' Fletcher said, his expression suspicious.

Sherlock smiled again. 'No, nothing like that. I'm just curious – have you seen it?'

'Maybe.'

'Got any proof?'

'Why would I tell you if I did?' he got up, quite obviously annoyed with Sherlock. 'Excuse me.'

John appeared then, drink in hand. Florence came up behind him, with her own drink untouched. They both sat opposite Fletcher, who gave Florence a smile. She turned away, cringing. 'I called Henry-' John began.

'Bet's off, John. Sorry.' Sherlock said, earning a frown from John. If Fletcher was a dog, his ears would have perked up at Sherlock's words.

'What?' John replied, taking a sip of his drink.

'Bet?' Fletcher said, sitting back down again.

'My plan needs darkness.' Sherlock said, ignoring them both. He looked at his watch, then up at the sky. 'Reckon we've got another half an our of light...'

'What bet?' the tour guide interrupted.

'Oh, I bet John here fifty quid that you couldn't prove you had seen the hound.'

It was apparent that John knew exactly what Sherlock was doing. 'Yeah, the guys in the pub said you could.'

Fletcher smiled cunningly. He pointed at Sherlock. 'You're gonna lose your money, mate.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. I've seen it. About a month ago, up at the Hollow. It was foggy mind – couldn't make much out.'

Sherlock pretended to be disappointed. 'No witnesses, I suppose.'

'No, but...'

'Never are.' he continued. His eyebrow, however, raised when a phone screen was thrust in his face. It depicted a dark, furry animal somewhere in the distance, but without a scale to show the size.

'There.'

Sherlock snorted. 'Is that it? Not exactly proof, is it?' The photo was passed around the small group. 'Sorry John. I win.' He goes to take a drink from the glass, before remembering it wasn't his.

Fletcher then said something about the Hollow being haunted, stating it gave people a 'bad sort of feeling'.

Sherlock grinned mockingly. 'Is it _haunted_? Is that supposed to convince me?'

'Nah, don't be stupid. Nothing like that. But I reckon there _is_ something out there, something from Baskerville. Escaped.'

Sherlock snickered, but pretended to hide it. 'A clone? A _super dog_?'

The conversation drivelled on, but Florence soon lost interest. She realised with some annoyance that she was beginning to lost interest in a lot of things. She didn't like that feeling.

Eventually, she tuned in just as Fletcher was pulling out a concrete cast from his bag. The cast was of a large dog's paw print, which probably measured six inches big. The three stared in shock, until John spoke up.

'Did we say fifty?'

* * *

'So is that how you _investigate_?' Florence asked, once more emphasising the last word. She still, after nearly two years, didn't like how it sounded – it seemed too childish to fit what Sherlock did.

Sherlock snickered. 'In a way.'

They were sitting in the pub, having left Fletcher – much to all of their relief. He was annoying, to say the least. Sherlock had switched to the drink John had bought, rather than the second-hand one he had stolen. Florence was still elegantly sipping hers, not really enjoying it. She didn't have a taste for sugary drinks.

'What are we going to do now? I presume we're not done for the evening..?' John said, hopefully.

'Baskerville.' Sherlock answered. He looked at his watch again. 'We should get there now.'

* * *

Florence had decided she wanted to stay at the Cross Keys, which John agreed with. Sherlock, on the other hand, was sceptical – he didn't really want to leave her on her own. She had argued that, for the sake of the case, an hour or so wouldn't hurt. She was getting far better, her mental state not nearly as bad as it was a few weeks ago.

She had even got quite heated about it.

So, as it was, she stayed.

* * *

They were just nearing the gates of Baskerville when two security guards and a sniffer dog stopped them.

'Pass, please.' one of them said.

Sherlock quickly brought out what must have been a pass from his pocket. He handed it to the guard, who went to check it.

'You've got ID for Baskerville. How?' John asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

'It's not specific to here. It's Mycroft's. Access all areas. I...' he cleared his throat awkwardly. 'acquired it ages ago, just in case.'

'Brilliant.' John said, his voice sarcastic.

'What's the matter?'

'We'll get caught.'

'No we won't. Not just yet.'

John laughed a breathy laugh. 'Fine. Caught in five minutes. "Oh, hi, we just thought we'd come in and have a wander round your top secret weapons base. Really? Great! Come in, kettle's just boiled." That's if we don't get shot.'

The security guard waved them through, and Sherlock drove through the opening gates.

'Mycroft's name _literally_ opens doors.' John muttered

'He practically _is_ the British government,' Sherlock said, his voice tired. He looked at his watch. 'I reckon we've got about twenty minutes before they realise something's wrong.'

* * *

**Okay. Sorry. I am alive. I'm also sorry that all the chapters are so short, and the wait period to read them is so long. I am ashamed. **

**As it happens, there should be one more of this disagreeable length before I can start making them longer. I hope. Here's to that idea...**

**Please do feel free to give me some constructive criticism, or just criticism if you want. We've got a way to go yet, and if you're not enjoying it but also want to read it (I'm sure you know the feeling) I'd hate for you to keep reading something you're not enthusiastic about.  
Thank you, 'till (hopefully) e**


	24. Chapter 24

'So, how did Baskerville go?' Florence asked an hour later. She had showered, and was pulling a light jacket over her shirt. Ever since she had been back, she had developed a little style. It mainly consisted of white, long-sleeved shirts, and either jumpers or jackets. Sherlock didn't like it that much, but he had said it suited her, so she went with it.

'It went as well as could be expected. Nearly got caught, but...' Sherlock trailed off. 'Well, let's just say a second-hand "friend" saved us from being potentially arrested.'

'Huh. A friend of Mycroft's?' Florence was standing as she towelled her long hair dry.

'I think so. Apparently, they met at some meeting at some club. He knew who we were though. Said he didn't recognise me without that fucking hat.'

Florence snickered. Sherlock noted on how quickly her mood had changed from earlier. She had been sullen, almost upset. He didn't just think it was her hormones. He smiled dismissively, his mind switching to thinking mode. She got the message immediately and went to brush her hair.

* * *

Henry Knight's home was massive. It was quite clear that he lived alone, entirely based on the fact that the outside was completely untamed – it looked like a miniature jungle.

Sherlock, John and Florence walked into the small conservatory, which was as uncared for as the exterior of the house. The paint was cracked and peeling, and several spider's webs covered the filthy windows. Sherlock rapped his knuckles against the door, and Henry opened it.

The house was even grander inside, and John remarked at how beautiful everything was inside. 'This is...' he began, before stumbling a little. 'Are you... rich?'

'Yeah.' Henry said casually.

'Right.' John tried to ignore the look Sherlock gave him before following Henry into the kitchen. Sherlock and John sat down, but Florence stayed standing. She was very aware of the fact that Henry kept looking at her inquisitively, and also aware of the fact he had no idea who she was, and vice versa.

'Ah, Henry,' Sherlock began, gesturing to Florence with one hand. 'This is Florence. She's an old... friend.'

Florence nodded at Henry, who nodded back, before turning around to look at the large garden. They walked into the kitchen.

'It's a couple of words.' Henry began, looking down at the central island Sherlock and John were sitting at. 'It's what I keep seeing. Liberty...'

John, sensing that this was important, got out a notebook and began to write the word down. 'Liberty.' he repeated.

'Liberty and... in. Just that.' he turned around to put some milk in the fridge, and John turned to the other two, who were both watching Henry intently.

'Mean anything to you?'

Florence stepped closer to them. 'Liberty in death – the only true freedom.' she muttered softly. Sherlock nodded in agreement.

'What now, then?' Henry said, turning back to face them.

'Sherlock's got a plan.' John said, and looked at Sherlock to continue.

'Right,' Henry said, leaning forward slightly.

'We take you back to the moor,' Sherlock began, his voice serious. 'And see if anything attacks you.'

'What?' John exclaimed, and Florence raised an eyebrow from behind them.

'That should bring things to a head.' Sherlock continued; his voice steady.

'At night? You want me to go out there at night?' Sherlock made an agreeing noise.

'That's your plan?' John said, snorting. 'Brilliant.' he said sarcastically.

'Look at it another way, John,' Florence said, stepping forward and resting her elbows on the island. 'have we got any better ideas?'

'But... that's not a plan.'

Sherlock sighed. 'Listen. If there is a monster out there, John, there's only one thing to do – find out where it lives.' He turned to Henry and smiled in a way he probably thought was encouraging, but very much was not. Florence grimaced, and cast an apologetic look towards Henry.

It was clear they were in for a rough night.

* * *

The moor was dark and somewhat misty. Henry led the way, using a torch to navigate their way across the uneven forest floor. The air was eery, and the presence of owls above made it feel like a cheesy horror movie.

Florence didn't like it at all. She hated the dark, and she was visibly shaking, which she tried to control whenever Sherlock looked behind him.

'Met a friend of yours.' the detective began, trying desperately to break the silence.

'What?'

'Doctor Frankland.'

'Oh, right – Bob. Yeah.'

'Seems pretty concerned about you.'

'He's a worrier, bless him. He's been very kind to me since I came back.' Henry jumped over a ditch, and after Sherlock had, he extended a hand to help Florence across. She thanked him, but jumped over on her own.

'He knew your father.' Sherlock continued, pausing to allow Henry to take the lead once more.

'Yeah.'

'But he works at Baskerville. Didn't your dad have a problem with that?'

'Well, mates are mates, aren't they? I mean, look at you and John.' Sherlock frowned, and Florence bit her lip to stop herself from laughing.

'What about us?'

'Well, I mean, he's a pretty straightforward bloke, and you...' he glanced behind him to look at Sherlock, and, seeing the look on Sherlock's face and the visible laughter on Florence's, he did not continue. He started walking again. 'They agreed never to talk about work.' He pointed his torch and nodded to the left. 'Dewer's Hollow.' he muttered. He clearly wasn't pleased.

Sherlock began to stumble down into the hollow, Florence hard on his trail. He was shining his torch around the floor idly as he descended, Henry following reluctantly.

The torch beam caught many large paw prints, causing Florence's heart rate to quicken.

Suddenly, a long, ear-splitting howl echoed around the hollow. Sherlock, surprised, shined his torch in the direction of the sound.

His face fell in horror, and Florence brought her hand to her mouth and bit hard to stop herself from screaming.

Whatever it was growled menacingly, before retreating hastily into the shadows. Sherlock tried to follow it with his torch, but it had already gone.

Henry came up behind them as Florence began to shake, saying 'oh my God' over and over, as if that would help calm his nerves.

'Did you see it?' he asked, his voice quivering. He looked at them both. Sherlock's head was down, his brow furrowed. Florence was just as blank, but she was nodding slightly.

John came crashing into the Hollow, making Florence jump. 'Did you hear that?' he said.

'We saw it.' Henry said frantically. 'We saw it.'

'No,' Sherlock said, beginning back up the Hollow's sides. 'I didn't see anything.' He rushed straight past John. Florence looked at him, puzzled. Hadn't they been together? Hadn't she watched his face contort?

'What are you talking about?' Henry said, just as puzzled. He followed Sherlock up the hill, catching up with him. Sherlock turned, his eyes burning.

'I. Didn't. See. Anything.'

* * *

Florence laid on her bed, the lights on. She had turned the only mirror in the room away from her – from the angle it was at, she could see behind her, at the darkness of outside. Her phone lay face down on the sheets. It quietly buzzed in her hand, but she did not look at it. She knew who was trying to contact her.

Gently, she got up, careful not to see her phone screen. She didn't want to see his name. She hurried down the corridor, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up as she felt phantom eyes on her back. The Hound was mentally torturing her.

The bar wasn't too far. She just had to reach the end of the corridor, and go down the stairs. She prayed neither Sherlock or John were there already.

She could hear the pleasant thrall of the pub, and quickened her pace. It made her feel strange, being in the corridor alone, when there was so many people below her.

'Oh no you don't.' Sherlock's stern, deep voice startling her, she spun around quickly, almost hitting her head on the abnormally high windowsill.

'One.' Florence replied, her voice desperate. 'After today. I need it.'

'No. We're in this together, Flo. I lay off the smoke, and you _forever_ keep away from the intoxicating substances.'

'I know.' she said quietly. 'You saw it, didn't you?' she asked, fully aware of the risks of her question.

Sherlock stared at her – a long and hard stare that went straight through her. Eventually he nodded. 'We should go and sit. Get a coke. Really _talk_. I realise I've been a bit... distant. I want to correct that.'

* * *

Minutes later, they were sitting by the fireplace, the flames in the hearth warming Florence's feet uncomfortably.

'It was so big.' she whispered after a while, sipping her Coke delicately. She realised as some of the liquid spilled onto her lap that she was shaking, so she put it down. She wondered why she kept drinking these drinks, she really didn't like them. 'And its eyes...' she trailed off, her eyes closing. Sherlock watched her breathe in. 'Let's distract ourselves. Just for now. Let's get lost in conversation. We can worry about the hound later.'

Sherlock tried to smile. 'Okay. Uh... what's your favourite colour?'

'It hasn't changed.'

'Green, then.' he watched as the light from the fire made Florence's eyes look like glittering emeralds.

'Mhm. And yours is still indigo?' He nodded. 'This is going surprisingly well, seeing as neither of us are conversationalists.' she smiled, and Sherlock mimicked her expression.

He laughed slightly. 'We've only asked one question.'

'What did you do when I was gone? Like, what did you _do_? It's been this long, and I'm still not sure.'

'Apart from trying to find you?' Sherlock asked. Florence nodded, her smile fading slightly. 'Well, I posted to the website. I post relatively frequently, mainly trying to make people less thick.' Florence laughed.

'Did you put that thing about the tattoos?'

'No!' Sherlock gasped mockingly. 'That will be my next project.'

Florence smiled, tilting her head at him. She held out her hand over the arm of the chair, and he took it. 'I missed you.' she said, her face suddenly serious. 'There was not a single day where I didn't think about you, and when I hadn't regretted what I had done. Even when I was with Arthur's lot, you were always there. I missed you so much.'

'Why,' Sherlock began. 'Why did you leave?'

'I don't know. It was the anniversary of my mother's death. I was getting increasingly suicidal. And you...' she breathed in shakily, and Sherlock frowned. 'I can't remember much about the first few days, but I think I must have had some sort of breakdown, and before I knew it I was being kicked and punched and all manners of pain was being inflicted to me on the street side.' Florence closed her eyes again, her brow furrowing in distress. Sherlock squeezed her hand reassuringly.

'I haven't been much of a friend recently, but... I'll try to do better. To you and John. Not get angry so often, not shut you out. I know I did that, after I said I wouldn't. I was completely aware it was happening, but I just didn't... know how to stop it. But now, I know how to stop it, and I will.' he said, his voice determined. He looked at her directly, and she looked at him back.

'Thank you,' she whispered, before taking another sip of her Coke and leaving.#

* * *

_Sherlock had reported Florence's disappearance to the police. They said they'd do everything they could, and Sherlock had got angry, saying that that was a stupid thing to say. He then calmed down and offered his assistance. They accepted, slightly startled, to say the least._

_He was noticing her absence more and more each day. He would sometimes talk to her, or laugh at something and look to where she should be. It was a miserable existence._

_Mycroft had come to see him, to tell him they'd found nothing "as yet". Sherlock had glared at him, and not said a word._

_'Look, brother mine, we're trying our hardest. Believe me, I... I care as well. The second we hear anything, we'll tell you. So stop being so ungrateful, get out of this strop, and lend a bloody hand.'_

_Sherlock stared at him, startled. Mycroft's facial expression softened as he realised what he had said. 'I'm...' he began. 'My condolences, Sherlock. Really. I miss her too.' And with that, he was gone, leaving Sherlock none the wiser and in a state worse than death._

* * *

**Okay. this one is a bit longer, hallelujah! hopefully some better ones soon 3**


	25. Chapter 25

**Hi! Before we carry on, I just wanted to thank everyone who's favourite-d and followed this story. It means the _world_ to me. It shows me that my little idea can - and has - found it's way into your lives, even in a really small way. **

**Special thank you to everyone who's left reviews! They are _most _insightful. I thoroughly enjoy reading them. (Blimey, you can really tell I'm British). **

* * *

Florence slept when she got back. She found herself too tired to do anything as energy-consuming like worrying, so she fell onto her bed and let her eyes close.

When they opened again, it was because the sunlight hit her eyes, and she realised with a weary sigh that she had left the curtains open. Her mind instantly switched to paranoia as she thought of the things that could have been watching her sleep.

Shaking those thoughts from her head, she quickly dressed and moved out into the corridor. Stepping lithely, fully aware of the time, she knocked on Sherlock's room door. There was no answer. She tried the door handle, knowing that if he was in there, he would have left it open, but it was locked. She sighed again, and went back into her room to shower.

* * *

Sherlock was back on the same outcrop of rocks as he had been before. The events of the previous night had left him in a state, and he was trying to clear his head.

He looked to Baskerville first, his eyes squinting to get a better look.

_He had seen it_.

He turned towards the Hollow, not surprised to see nothing.

His head light, he made for Grimpen Village.

* * *

Florence knew she should not have spoken to Henry Knight in the morning. Despite the fact that it was not her investigation to conduct, she really wanted to feel like she was a part of it. Sherlock was trying to include her, she could really see that he was. John was less keen, though. It made sense to her, of course, why she shouldn't be doing much. Her mind wasn't really in a good state. Every time she thought back to her friends in London, she would feel a wave of nausea wash over her. She realised with some dismay that that was not very normal, and that she would have to talk to her therapist about it. This, plus a lot more, told her that she shouldn't be talking to Sherlock's clients.

However, when she was walking aimlessly around the village, she ran into Henry – and asked him about his night.

And he told her that he had seen the hound again.

'Sherlock _did_ see it. I know he did. You were standing right next to him, and you saw it.' Henry said, his words hesitant.

Florence thought for a bit. Should she tell him what Sherlock said last night? That he _did_ see it? She decided eventually that that wasn't the best idea, since she really shouldn't have been talking to him in the first place.

'I don't know what he saw or didn't see. I don't know what _I_ saw. But I know I saw something. I may have been looking in the wrong place, and he may have missed it by a second. It left as quickly as it had come.' she said, but she knew Henry could see right through her. He nodded, said 'well, see you later', and left.

* * *

'Morning!' Sherlock said, uncharacteristically cheerfully, as he stepped into Henry Knight's house not an hour later. He surged through the door, making to go to the kitchen before seemingly remembering his manners and turning around to face the other man. He placed his hands on his shoulders. 'How are you feeling?'

Henry's face looked different, and Sherlock moved his head to get a better look at it. It was obvious he had been sleeping rough. Sherlock expected immediately it was something to do with the hound.

'I'm...' Henry began, and his words came out all slurred. He was exhausted, and it was obvious. 'I didn't sleep very well.'

'That's a shame,' Sherlock said indifferently. 'shall I make you some coffee?' his eyes wandered up to the ceiling, which he raised his eyebrows at and pointed to. 'Oh look, you've got damp.'

Henry was too tired to ask if Sherlock was okay. He definitely didn't seem it, but he didn't know him that well, so how could he be sure?

Whatever was happening, he was smiling in a way that Henry severely disliked, so he looked up at the damp then down again to see Sherlock's face had dropped suddenly and he walked to the kitchen, beginning instantly to open and close cupboard doors manically until he found what he was looking for.

'Listen...' Henry said as the eccentric detective brought two mugs over to the island he was sitting at the day before. 'Last night.'

Sherlock grinned at him again, making him feel very uncomfortable once more.

'Why did you say you hadn't sen anything? I mean, I only saw the hound for a minute, but...'

Sherlock stopped what he was doing, his expression turning dangerously intense once more. He slammed the coffee tin he had got from the cupboard on the counter, and stepped towards Henry. His eyes hardened.

'Hound.' he said simply.

'What?'

'Why do you call it a hound? Why a hound?'

'Why... what do you mean?'

'It's odd, isn't it? Strange choice of words – archaic. It's why I took the case. "Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound". Why say "hound"?'

'I don't know!' Henry exclaimed, his voice distressed. 'I-'

'Actually, I'd better skip the coffee.' and with that, he was gone.

* * *

Sherlock was just walking through the gates of the local church when Florence caught up with him.

'Henry saw the hound again last night.' she muttered, quiet enough only Sherlock could hear it. John was ahead of them, looking through the pages of his notebook.

'Explains the bags under his eyes,' he said back, equally as quiet, before raising his voice to talk to John.

'Did you, er,' he began, and Florence felt the awkwardness hit her like a brick wall. 'get anywhere with that Morse code?'

'No.' John replied. He nodded a quick greeting at Florence before beginning to walk away.

'UMQRA, wasn't it?' Sherlock continued, unaware of the fact John was clearly trying to ignore him, and kept repeating the word and the initials.

'Nothing.' John said, throwing a glance at Florence, who raised her eyebrow. Sherlock began to voice the initials again before John cut him off. 'Look, forget it. It's... I thought I was on to something. I wasn't.' his voice sounded weary, and Florence wanted to drag Sherlock away from it before it got any worse.

'Sure?' Sherlock asked.

'Yeah.'

'How about Louise Mortimer. Did you get anywhere with her?'

John sighed again, wishing this would all be over. He really wanted to go home. 'No.'

'Too bad. Did you get any information?'

John smiled that quick smile that, in the time Florence had known him, she had come to know as a dangerous smile. He was about to crack.

'You being funny now?'

'Thought it might break the ice a bit.'

Florence laughed a somewhat frustrated laugh, and Sherlock gave her a look that said more than a thousand sarcastic words could.

'Funny doesn't suit you. I'd stick to ice.'

Florence was confused. Something had obviously happened, something that she had, unfortunately, missed. Whatever it was, it was big, because when she looked at her best friend again his face was strained. 'John.'

'It's fine.' John answered quickly, definitely not sounding fine.

'No, wait. What happened last night... something happened to me, something I've not really experienced before.' Florence raised her eyebrows, amused. She would have to ask him what happened.

'Yes, you said: fear. Sherlock Holmes got scared. You said.' turns out she didn't have to ask.

Sherlock, clearly frustrated, sped up to match John's stride, and pulled him round to face him. 'No. It was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night.'

'What the fuck did I miss?' Florence asked, fully aware that then was not the time, giving her an incentive to speak up. It gave her some sort of thrill when both of their eyes fell on hers, and they didn't look too happy.

John turned back to face him. 'You can't actually believe that you saw some kind of monster.'

'I do.' Florence muttered, and John pulled a face. He was getting annoyed with her, now.

'No. I can't believe that.' his lips pulling into a bitter smile for less than a second. 'But I did see it, so the question is, how?'

John said something snarky, but Florence's mind was elsewhere. What Sherlock said made a whole lot of sense. Did she really believe she had seen the hound, or did her expectations tinge reality? She saw _something_. It looked at her and snarled. So why did she immediately associate that with a hound?

John had walked away, and Sherlock tried once more. 'What I said before, John. I meant it. I don't have friends.'

John raised his eyebrows in disbelief, gesturing pointedly to Florence. 'That's your living proof that what you just said was a lie, Sherlock-'

'She's not my friend. But you are.'

'Right.'

Florence was about to ask him what that meant before his face brightened suddenly and he called out to John again, running to catch up with him. Florence rolled her eyes before jogging to catch up.

'You are amazing. You are fantastic!'

'Yes, all right – you don't have to overdo it.'

'You've never been the most luminous of people-' John rolled his eyes, '-but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable.'

John seemed to think about this for a moment. 'Cheers. What?'

Sherlock began to pull a notebook from his pocket. 'Some people who aren't geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others.'

'Hang on, you were saying sorry a minute ago. Don't spoil it.' he stopped, and saw Sherlock writing something down on the page. 'Go on: what have I done that's so bloody stimulating?'

Sherlock thrust the notebook in John's face. The other man squinted to read it, and after he had done Sherlock did the same to Florence.

'Hound?' Florence asked.

'Yeah?' John said at the same time.

'But what if it's not a word? What if it's individual letters?'

'You think it's an acronym?'

'Absolutely no idea, but...' he turned towards the pub, which they had been walking to, rolls his eyes and starts walking towards it as he saw none other than Detective Inspector Lestrade standing inside it. 'What the hell are you doing here?'

'Well, nice to see you too!' he said sarcastically, 'I'm on holiday, would you believe?'

'No, I wouldn't.' Sherlock said, observing the colour of Lestrade's skin and the sunglasses he wore admittedly well.

He took those sunglasses off. 'Hello, John.'

'Greg!' John exclaimed, clearly happy for the extra company.

'Florence?' Lestrade asked, turning to Florence and looking doubtful. She nodded, smiling briefly before extending her hand for him to shake. She thought, that after this long, he would have remembered her name. 'I heard you were in the area. What are you up to? After this Hound of Hell like on the telly?'

'I'm waiting for an explanation, Inspector. Why are you here?' Sherlock said, his voice close to angry. Florence had seen her fair share of anger from this man, and did not wish it on anyone.

'I've told you – I'm on holiday.'

'You're brown as a nut. You're clearly just back from your holidays.'

'Yeah, well, I fancied another one.' Lestrade answered, trying desperately hard to look nonchalant, but failing miserably.

'Oh,' Sherlock said as realisation dawned on his face. 'This is Mycroft, isn't it?'

'No, look...'

'Of course it is! One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to... to spy on me incognito. Is this why you're calling yourself Greg?'

Florence snickered, and John pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. 'That's his name.'

'Is it?' Sherlock replied, his brow furrowing. Florence laughed harder.

'Yes, if you'd ever bothered to find out. Look, I'm not your handler, and I don't just do what your brother tells me.'

'Actually, you could just be the man we want.'

Sherlock's face screwed up in confusion again. 'Why?'

'Well, I've not been completely useless, Sherlock. I think I might have found something.' From his pocket, he pulled out the receipt he had snatched from the bar the previous day. Florence craned her neck to see over Sherlock's tall shoulder, before realising it was futile and walking around him instead. 'Here. Didn't know if it was relevant – starting to look like it might be. That is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant.'

Sherlock read it. 'Excellent.'

'Nice scary inspector from Scotland Yard who can put in a few calls might come in very handy.' John said, causing Sherlock and Lestrade to exchange a somewhat confused look. He brought his hand down hard on the bar bell. 'Shop!'

* * *

It was clear the two men were guilty. Of what, no one quite knew. Gary was sitting at a table in the lounge next to the bar, and Billy, the chef, was sitting next to him. Both were anxious, and weren't doing their best to hide it. Lestrade, sitting across from them, was looking through previous invoices from the meat company the vegetarian restaurant had been buying from.

Sherlock, on the other side of the room, was idly pouring coffee from a filter. John was sitting at a table that was attached to the wall, and looking at the happenings curiously. Florence was avoiding Lestrade, and that was even more obvious than Gary and Billy's anxiety.

She didn't know what it was that made her afraid of him, she just _was_. Maybe she was used to being wary around the police. Maybe because it was him she spoke to first, after being found. She placed it as that, but couldn't help but think there was something else. Something worse.

She was vaguely aware of Sherlock and John's conversation and, like earlier, it was mainly Sherlock trying desperately to be nice, but John was not really having any of it. She heard the words 'don't' and 'sugar', and pieced it together in her head. Sherlock had made a drink and given it to John in some form of apology, since she remembered from years ago that he _never_ made drinks, and John wasn't that impressed.

She secretly felt a bit bad for them. She had pieced together what had happened the night before, and that it must have been after their conversation because Sherlock was in a relatively good mood then. Whatever had happened, Sherlock had offended John, and she knew he couldn't help it, but it made her slightly angry. John was a great person, and she liked him. And it was clear Sherlock liked him, which made her like him more. Then she realised her mind had started wandering again, so she switched to song lyrics and sipped her water.

'These records go back two months. Is that when you had the idea, after the documentary went out?'

'It was me.' Billy said, and Florence smiled into her cup, knowing what was coming. 'I'm sorry, Gary. I had a bacon sandwich at Carl's wedding and one thing led to another.'

'Nice try,' Lestrade said, his voice amused. Florence could see Sherlock smiling, too.

'Look,' Gary began, with an apologetic smile. 'We were just trying to boost things a bit, you know? A great big dog running wild on the moor – it was heaven sent. Like us having our own Loch Ness Monster.'

'Where do you keep it?'

'There's an old mine shaft. Not too far from here. It was all right there...'

'"Was"?' Sherlock asked suddenly.

'We couldn't control the bloody thing.' Gary said, sighing sadly. 'It was vicious. And then, a month ago, Billy took him to the vet and... you know.'

'It's dead?' John asked, frowning.

'Put down.'

'Yeah. No choice. So, it's over.' Billy replied, his expression glazed.

'It was just a joke, you know?' Gary said. Florence noted on how often he said, 'you know', and wondered if he was telling the truth.

'Yeah, hilarious.' Lestrade said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He stood up and looked down on them, fuming. 'You've nearly driven a man insane!' he walked out of the room, with John on his heels. Sherlock got up to follow, but, Florence noticed, he looked into John's coffee cup before leaving. She stood up, gave the two men a pointed look, and followed them.

She got out in time to hear the word 'Asperger's', which irked her slightly. Sherlock didn't like it, and he was glaring at John as Lestrade spoke.

'So, do you believe him about having the dog destroyed?'

'No reason not to,' Sherlock answered, tearing his eyes from John hesitantly, and looking to Lestrade. Florence was just about to give them her views before Lestrade spoke over her.

'Well, hopefully there's no harm done. Not quite sure what I'd charge them with, anyway. There's not really a tier for 'harmless pranks gone horribly wrong'. I'll have a word with the local force.' he nodded generally. 'Right, that's that then. Catch you later.' he smiled, looking at each of them before continuing. 'I'm enjoying this! It's nice to get London out your lungs!'

John waited until Lestrade was out of earshot before speaking. 'So that was their dog that people saw out on the moor?'

'Looks like it.' Sherlock said, completely unconvinced.

'But that wasn't what you saw. That wasn't just an ordinary dog.'

'No.' Florence noticed as his eyes glazed over. 'It was immense, had burning red eyes and it was glowing' – Florence frowned – 'it's whole body was glowing.'

Florence relaxed her facial muscles before John saw them, aware that Sherlock was up to something. He shuddered, shaking the memory out of his head as if it was a wasp in his hair.

'I've got a theory, but I need to get back into Baskerville to test it.'

'How? You can't really do the whole ID thing again,' John said sceptically. They both started walking, and Florence jogged to catch up with them.

'Might just have to.' Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, and Florence watched as he reluctantly chose Mycroft's name from the list of contacts. 'Hello, brother dear.' he said, his voice dripping with blunt sarcasm. 'How _are_ you?'

* * *

_'What, Mycroft?' Sherlock growled, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He sniffed, and his growing hair flopped over his eyes._

_'Sherlock...' Mycroft coaxed, extending his arm, then thinking better of it and putting it down again. 'You're in over your head.'_

_They were sat in an alleyway, one that was so out of the way, one would have thought the inhabitant was trying to hide from someone. That, of course, was exactly what Sherlock was doing, and the man sitting beside him was the man he was trying to avoid._

_'What do you mean, over my head?'_

_'Look at you, Sherlock. If you could see yourself from where I'm standing, even with our current relationship... it would break you.'_

_'Oh would it now?'_

_'Imagine if you saw Florence like this?' Mycroft snapped._

_'You'd better tread _very_ carefully, brother mine-' Sherlock's voice had taken a dangerous turn._

_'I mean it, Sherlock. If you saw the one person in your life that you cared about-'_

_'Why do you keep saying I mean something to you?' Sherlock spat. He sniffed again._

_'Use your brain, Sherlock...'_

_'My brain's slightly preoccupied.'_

_'You're high as a kite, Sherlock.' Mycroft said sternly._

_'So? I'm still functioning.'_

_'What's the first twenty digits of pi?'_

_Sherlock thought for a second._

_'See?'_

_'It's only been four seconds.'_

_'And you've lost your train of thought. You're not thinking straight. What if something happened to you?'_

_'What would happen to me?'_

_'You know more than anyone that there are bad people. You could be killed.'_

_'Oh, come on. I'd still outsmart them, even in this state.'_

_'No, Sherlock, you'd bore them to death. I don't have time for chit-chat. I'm taking you with me-'_

_'To hell you are.' he sniffed._

_'Sherlock.' Mycroft's voice was stern again._

_'No.'_

* * *

Florence didn't want to go to Baskerville. She asked if she could stay in her room, but after a _very_ dangerous look from Sherlock, she realised that was not an option. She had nearly cracked the night before, and he didn't want to risk it again. She was doing well.

She then, hesitantly, asked if she could stay with Lestrade. Sherlock figured, since technically he was higher authority than John to keep an eye on her and she would really get in the way at Baskerville, that that should happen.

So, not twenty minutes later, Florence found herself sitting opposite the man she was trying so hard to avoid.

'So,' he began, obviously awkward. 'How are you doing?' Florence gave him a pointed look. 'I'm asking as a friend, or a friend of a friend. Not as the police force. You can answer if you like, not because you have to.'

She stayed quiet for a bit, but when Lestrade said a quick 'okay' she said, 'I'm okay.' Lestrade nodded in understanding, and silently beckoned for her to continue. 'I had a few shaky days, and a couple of scares, but other than that I'm okay.'

'You're not going to tell me what those scares were, are you?' When Florence didn't reply, he sighed. 'Remember. I'm your friend, not an interrogator.'

'You continuously saying "I am not the police" makes me feel like you are the police.' Florence snapped, and Lestrade smiled, casting his eyes down. 'And no, I'm afraid I'm not going to tell you what those scares were.

'I've noticed you trying to keep away from me. Even now you're not looking at me directly. Is my ear really that interesting?'

Florence smiled lightly. She was beginning to loosen up. 'Is it because I found you?' Lestrade continued, causing her smile to drop instantly. She hadn't known _he_ found her. 'You were dead.' he said, his expression suddenly worried. 'Your heart wasn't beating. How?'

'I can't say.' she said, and looked out of the window, signalling she _really_ didn't want to talk.

'Okay, let's change the subject. How long have you known Sherlock?'

'Counting the years I was gone, eighteen years.'

'You know, he got on the wrong side of a _lot _of people trying to find you. Your grandmother won't speak to him anymore, and your uncle tries to punch him whenever he sees him. They think he hurt you.'

'He didn't hurt me.' Florence said quickly, her voice suddenly defensive. 'He didn't _ever_ hurt me. If anything, he stopped me hurting myself. So, when he was gone...' she trailed off. She didn't like this conversation. 'Can we talk about something else?'

'Yes,' Lestrade said kindly. 'So, if you were eighteen when you went missing, and you've been back nearly two years, are you twenty-eight now?' she nodded. 'So you must have known Sherlock from a very young age.'

'Seven. He was ten.'

'When you met, were you friends instantly?'

'We were each other's only friends. It was nice, in a way – we never got distracted, and we spent every second possible in each other's company.'

'What about when he went to high school?'

'I got a bit lonely in classes, because I didn't really get along with any of my classmates. I was always the one with no father, whose mother "danced" for a living. Apparently, she was some sort of showgirl in her prime, but it just got to stripper level when she hit forty.' Lestrade grimaced.

'But you saw each other afterwards?'

'Yeah. We went to a music club together. He played the violin – quite badly, he had to use a mute – and I played the drums - again, I was absolutely shit. It was fun, until he left when he was twelve because he was too old, and I didn't like anyone. Eventually I quit too.'

'So, you basically piggybacked on him?'

'No, it was often me who made him join things, to make friends his age. I was always self-conscious, even when I was eight and nine, that he would grow tired of being friends with someone three years younger than him. It was a horrid feeling, and one I never felt comfortable talking about, until I was thirteen. Then, because he was a college student and he just seemed so much older, I felt I could be open with him, and he would listen. We got a lot closer.'

'Did you ever... date?' Lestrade somehow knew he had crossed a line, and Florence laughed slightly before answering.

'No. I felt we were too close to date. I never knew what he felt, but whenever he said anything suggestive, I thought it was an accident.'

Lestrade chuckled. 'Why did you go?'

'Wow, this is going brilliantly for a non-police investigation.' she looked out of the window to see that night was falling. Lestrade looked at her, expecting an answer. 'I don't know. And if you're going to ask, yes, I've already spoken to him about all of this, so there really isn't any point in asking anything more.'

Lestrade nodded slowly, facing submission. Suddenly, the phone on the table began to buzz. The caller I.D read _Sherlock Holmes_.

Florence's heart skipped a beat. Why the Hell was Sherlock calling him?

'Hello? ... Okay - uh, we're coming.'

* * *

**I'm not dead - yet. Sorry for the late update, I've been busy with academic work, but now that I'm quarantined... **

**This chapter is a whopping 4,532 words long! Can you believe it! Me, your dear friend Heretic, posting a chapter that is more than a mere 2,000 words? The very thought!**

**I'm so sorry, I edited this and made it a little bit better, before I realised I hadn't deleted it from when I posted it, so I have to post it again. New content will follow _very_ shortly, however, so don't be disappointed :)**

**Really hope you're still enjoying this. I appreciate the reviews, I really, _really_ do. It makes me so happy and content when I get the email from the website, telling me someone's reviewed. everyone who reads :)**


	26. Chapter 26

The sun was setting slowly over the hilly landscape. Florence gazed with wide eyes - she had never seen anything so beautiful. The way the colours entwined with each other, creating this one idyllic scene - something she'd rarely had the pleasure of seeing.

The journey was short, especially over the moor, but it got her thinking about everything and nothing.

Sherlock had said earlier that she wasn't his friend, which surprised her – she knew he probably didn't mean it like that, but if he counted John as a friend, what _was_ she?

She saw the Hollow appear from nowhere, and Lestrade grabbed his gun from the dashboard. She wondered idly why he had a gun on the dashboard - it was only Dartmoor - before she got out after him. They ran down the sides of the Hollow, tripping several times over the roots, but regaining their composure before falling. She couldn't see anything but the beams of the torches in the near distance, and she could hear voices – distressed voices.

'Sherlock!' Lestrade called, clasping his gun in his hand and a torch in the other.

Florence got down in time to hear John mutter something soothingly to Henry Knight, and to see the latter man, to her surprise, lower a gun from his mouth and hand it to John.

'But we saw it,' Henry said, and his voice was shaking in a way that made him stutter. 'The hound, last night. We s... we-we-we did, we saw...'

'Yeah,' Sherlock interrupted. 'But there was a dog, leaving footprints, scaring witnesses, but it was nothing more than an ordinary dog. We both saw it, as our own drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus, that's how it works.'

Henry's expression turned from fear to confusion, and Florence looked at Sherlock curiously. 'I'll explain later,' he said to her, and, turning back to Henry; 'there never was any monster.'

However, as if just on cue, the same howl they heard before rung out over the hollow. 'If there is no hound,' Florence said, her voice surprisingly level and calm. 'what in Heaven's name was that?'

Two torch beams – Florence didn't know whose torches they belonged to – found an ungodly looking mutt that one would expect to find in a horror B-movie.

'Sherlock...' John said, just as Henry began to cry out in panic.

'No, no, no, no, no!' He was backing away, as if that would help at all, and Florence moved over to him slowly, holding out her hand in an attempt to calm him down.

'Henry,' she said, 'Henry, it's okay.'

It was apparent he wasn't listening, and as the hound moved around the rim of the Hollow, he began to scream. 'Henry!' Florence cried, gripping his shoulder. He lashed out at her in terror, hitting her in the eye, his nail catching just below her eyebrow before sinking to his knees. Ignoring the sudden pain that was emanating from her left eye socket and the blood from the cut trickling into it, she bent down to his level in an attempt to comfort him. She made a mental note to _stop_ getting hurt all the time. It wasn't particularly impressive.

'Shit,' Lestrade said, his torch catching the glowing eyes of the beast.

John turned to face him, his torch shining in his face. 'Greg, are you seeing this?'

Lestrade didn't answer, but his facial expression said it all.

'Right. He's not drugged, Sherlock, so what's that? What the fuck is it?!' John's voice was panicked.

'All right!' Sherlock yelled in frustration, screwing his eyes shut to order his brain. 'It's still here.' his voice sounded betrayed, as if his whole entire life was a lie. 'but it's just a dog, Henry! Nothing more than an ordinary dog!'

The "dog" seemed offended by Sherlock's statement, and it threw its head back in a long, low howl that sent shivers through Florence's spine. She wiped the blood from her throbbing eye.

'Oh, my God.' Lestrade exclaimed as the hound jumped from the rim to the bottom of the pit, it's eyes a blaring red. 'Oh Christ!'

It was just as the beast opened its snarling mouth to reveal a row of deadly, pointed teeth that definitely did _not_ belong to a dog that a movement from behind them made Sherlock tear his eyes from the monstrosity before him.

A figure in a freaky gas mask waltzed through the mist, and Sherlock ran over to them, grabbing them by the mask and tearing it off their face. Florence couldn't see the face from that distance, but Sherlock was reacting badly to it, so she patted Henry's shoulder and jogged over to him just as he headbutted them hard, causing them to crumple slightly. She caught up to him, taking hold of his arm before looking up at the figure before her.

She didn't recognise him, but his hand was covering half of his face. Sherlock looked around them at the mist, and Florence saw something in his mind _click_.

'The fog,' he said quietly.

'What?' John asked, his torch beam still on the hound.

'It's the fog! The drug, it's in the fog! Aerosol dispersal – that's what it said in those records. Project HOUND – it's the fog! A chemical minefield!'

Florence spun around, turning herself away from the mist. She saw Lestrade throw his arm across his face, to block the mist from diffusing into his system. The hound growled, making it's way slowly towards them all.

The man in the mask started yelling. 'Kill it! For god's sake, kill the damned thing!'

Lestrade tried as it prepared for a pounce. He shot three times, futilely, but when John tried his bullets struck the animal, causing it to cry out in pain before keeling over, as dead as it should have been in the first place.

Sherlock ran to Henry, and shoved him forward, towards the dead creature. 'Look at it, Henry!'

'No, no,' Henry wailed, trying desperately not to look at it.

'Come on, look at it!' Sherlock growled, pushing him closer towards it.

'Sherlock!' Florence protested, her feminine voice sounding odd amongst the wails. Sherlock, however, had pushed him enough – and they both could see that it was merely a large dog.

Suddenly, Henry lunged at the man in the mask, screaming with rage. 'You bastard! Twenty years of my life making no sense! Why didn't you just kill me?!' at this point, the man was on the floor, and John and Lestrade were trying desperately to prise Henry off him.

'Because dead men get listened to. He needed to do more than kill you, he had to discredit every word you'd ever said about your father – and he had the means right at his feet. A chemical minefield, pressure pads in the ground, dosing you up every time that you came back here.' he gestured widely at the Hollow. 'Murder weapon and scene of the crime all at once!' he cried, laughing. 'Oh, this case, Henry! Thank you, it's been brilliant.'

Florence rolled her eyes, and John glared at him. 'Sherlock,'

'What?'

'Timing.'

'Not good?'

'No, no,' Henry answered, nodding in acceptance. 'It's fine, because this means... this means that my dad was right.' he started moving towards the man, who Florence had realised was probably the man they were both talking about yesterday – Bob Frankland. 'He found something out, didn't he, and that's why you killed him, because he was right – and he'd found you right in the middle of an experiment.' Henry was beginning to tear up, but they heard a snarl from behind them.

John shot the hound twice more as it whined in pain before it stopped, but by the time they had all turned around again, Frankland was making his way quickly up the slope.

'Frankland!' Sherlock yelled, and started racing after him. Florence began to follow him, but every step she took hurt her eye, so she had to slow down slightly, letting John and Lestrade run past her. The latter man turned around to both her and Henry, yelling at them to keep up. Florence didn't think it the right time to complain, so she tried.

'It's no use, Frankland!' Sherlock cried, just as the other man jumped the barbed wire surrounding the minefield. Florence winced, thinking about how dangerous it would be if they all followed him, before a huge explosion tore through the air. She let out a small scream as she ducked, covering her head with her hands. As the explosion fizzled into the air, she saw Henry lean against a nearby tree. Her hand covered her mouth as she realised what had just happened, and all they could do for a few minutes was stare.

* * *

The next morning, Florence awoke in a cold sweat. She had had a nightmare about her mother, for the first time in three years. It was all clear to her – her walking towards the balcony, her sitting with her back to the girl, her turning around to face her, Florence's scream and the _crack_ as the woman hit the ground.

She shuddered, and got out of bed. She decided that, because she was filthy, which is as good a reason as any, she would have a shower.

Twenty minutes later, she was in the pub garden, watching John eat his all-vegetarian "full English". Sherlock walked over to them, holding two mugs and a glass of water on a tray.

'They didn't have it put down, then – the dog.' Sherlock asked, placing one mug on the table next to John, and the water before Florence, giving her a look that said _obviously_.

'Suppose they just couldn't bring themselves to do it.'

'I see.'

Florence grinned, earning a new look from Sherlock.

'No you don't.'

'No, I don't. Sentiment?'

'Sentiment!'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Florence widened her grin. 'Oh.'

He sat next to John, his eyes suddenly narrow. 'Were you punched?' he said to Florence.

'Yes. Henry hit me by accident last night. He didn't even notice, bless him. He was fucking terrified.'

Sherlock frowned, then raised his eyebrows in a 'meh'.

John's expression suddenly turned serious. 'Listen, what happened to me in the lab?'

Sherlock looked at him, his face suddenly slightly worried. Florence frowned in confusion. 'What happened in the lab?' she asked.

'I mean, I hadn't been to the Hollow, so how come I heard those things in there? Fear and stimulus, you said.'

Florence raised her eyebrow at Sherlock in realisation. What John was saying as well as how Sherlock was reacting said it all – he had tricked him.

'You must have been dosed with it elsewhere. When you went to the lab, maybe. You saw those pipes – pretty ancient, leaky as a sieve – and they were carrying the gas, so...' he then offered a variety of sauces.

'Hold up; you thought it was in the sugar.' John said. 'You were convinced it was in the sugar.'

Sherlock looked away. 'Better get going, actually.' he looked down at his watch, thought for a moment, then said, 'there's a train that leaves in half an hour, so if you want-'

'Oh God. It was you. You locked me in that bloody lab.'

Sherlock sighed. 'I had to. It was an experiment.'

John raised his eyebrows in disbelief. 'An _experiment_?' he said, furious.

'Shh.'

'I was terrified, Sherlock. I was scared to death.' Florence leaned forward in interest.

'I thought that the drug was in the sugar, so I put sugar in your coffee, then arranged everything with Major Barrymore. Plus, I couldn't very well do it with Florence, in her state, she'd have a heart attack.' John sighed, exasperated, as Florence frowned. 'It was all totally scientific, laboratory conditions – well, literally. I was watching you, and had you on the phone. At regular intervals I played growling sounds into the microphone. I knew what effect it had on a superior mind, so I needed to try it on an average one.'

John looked up at him, his eyebrows raised.

'You know what I mean.'

'But it wasn't in the sugar.' Florence said, half listening.

'No, well. I wasn't to know he had already been exposed to the gas.'

'So,' Florence said, a smile beginning to creep on her face. 'You got it wrong.' John grinned, mid-mouthful.

'No.'

'Yes. You were wrong about the sugar. You,' she said, pointing at him mockingly. 'got it wrong.'

'A bit. It won't happen again.' Florence snickered, and John sighed.

'Any long term effects?'

'None at all. You'll be fine once you've excreted it. We all will.'

Florence grimaced. 'I think I might have taken care of that already,' John said, and Sherlock snorted. He then stood. 'Where are you going?'

'Won't be a minute. Gotta see a man about a dog.' he smiled – actually friendly this time – at both of them before walking away.

* * *

_Florence woke abruptly, like being pulled from cold water. All the pain she remembered from before she fell asleep was gone, and she wondered how long she'd been gone. Her head pounded in pain, and she closed her eyes to think._

_She suddenly realised that where she was sleeping was completely unfamiliar. She looked around frantically, to try and see where she was. She knew the men last night – Arthur, one of them, the one who'd taken her, had said his name was – had taken her into this room, and given her some sort of pill to send her to sleep. It was a nice pill, and made her forget the torments of the day. She had fallen asleep easily._

_But now that pill had worn off, and she felt like her brain had been run over with a bus._

_She heard someone walk in, and opened her eyes, panicking. The man looked terrifying. He must have been six foot four, and strong-looking. His hair was slicked back against his head, and it was dark. There was a menacing scar on his face, one that could only have been acquired through man-inflicting pain. She shuddered as they locked eyes._

_'Hello.' he said. Florence remained silent, and he frowned. 'Bonjour?'_

_Florence tried to search for words. Instead of replying in her own English tongue, she resorted to the French he had just spoken. 'Salut.'_

_The man's eyes widened in realisation. 'Ah. Je m'appelle James, James Myers. Je suis Francais, aussi. Comment t'appelle tu?'_

_Florence smiled as she realised what she'd done. 'Je ne suis pas Francaise. Je suis Anglaise. Mais- ah. Sorry. I couldn't find real words and French was easier.'_

_'Easier, eh? I know a fair few people who'd say otherwise.' __his voice was deep, but kind. There was no accent, despite him saying he was French._

_'Yeah, well. Pain can do that sort of thing to you.' as she spoke, she wondered idly how she was so calm. This was unfamiliar. She was eighteen, in a strange room, talking to a stranger. A nice stranger, but still a stranger. _

_'Are you in pain?' James asked, his brow furrowing. He seemed confused. _

_'No. Not at all, actually. Why is that? I was hurting yesterday.'  
_

_'I'm sure Arthur'll tell you about it, when he wants to. You're lucky - he's not in a bad mood today.' _

_'Is that the man who...'_

_'Picked you up? Yeah. That's Arthur. Arthur Jackson. Seems a bit scary at first, just a forewarning, but he's actually quite soft once you get to know him.'_

_'Ah.' she frowned suddenly. 'I don't know where I am.'_

_'Don't worry, you've not been kidnapped. We're in an old warehouse, in the South of London. Outskirts of the city.'_

_Florence nodded. The movement felt stiff, but there was still no pain. 'Why am I not frightened?'_

_James pulled a face. 'I don't know. Perhaps I've got a trustworthy face.'_

_'Mm. I bet whatever gave you that scar trusted you, too.' Florence closed her eyes in frustration. That joke was entirely out of order - she didn't even know this man. _

_Luckily, James grinned, amused. 'I think I asked you a question.' _

_'Oh. I'm Florence.'_

_'Hello, Florence.'_

_'Hello, James.'_

* * *

Florence was relieved to be back at home, and she thought Sherlock was too. His posture was far more relaxed, now that he had this familiar setting enveloping him.

She had also noticed how his mood had changed, for the better – as he said he'd try to do. It was a welcome change, and both her and John were treating him with less caution – John even threw a joke at his expense at him, and he didn't react in a way that would make someone want to crawl into a hole and die there.

The next few days were almost jolly, and everyone felt more comfortable with each other. There were far more laughs, far less snarky comments.

It was on one of days, in the morning, when it was all three of them sitting together, that they got talking, about _real_ things.

'We...' John began. He shifted uncomfortably in his armchair. Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, and Florence was glaring at him from _his_ armchair for taking _her_ spot on the sofa. She turned her gaze to John when he started talking. 'I feel like we all need to talk about what happens now.'

'What do you mean?' came Sherlock's muffled response from the sofa.

'Well, we can't solve crimes forever.'

Sherlock turned around quite suddenly, pulling a face. 'Why not?'

'Because it's not bringing in a stable income, Sherlock. If we are to keep living here – in central London-'

'I agree.' Florence began carefully. 'You let me in here, let me stay. I haven't given anything back. I want to.'

'I didn't mean it like that-' John said quickly, and Florence grinned.

'No, I know you didn't – but I did.'

'But-' Sherlock began, standing up. 'You both... are completely...'

'Brilliant?' John asked, just as Florence said 'incredible?'. They laughed.

'No. Well. Yes, but that's not what I'm saying. You're useful, and I'm not sure if I could do anything anymore without you.'

John looked at Florence. 'I do believe he's trying to tell us something.'

'He doesn't want us to get a job and leave him alone – do you, Sherlock?' Florence smiled kindly. Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration, then shook his head.

'Fine. But we can't live off Mycroft forever.' John repeated. Sherlock nodded again, awkwardly, and escaped into the kitchen.

'Hold onto that, Flo.' John muttered, 'he'll never say anything like that again.'

'Oh, he will. Give him a few years. His compliment-o-meter will fill up again.'

John snickered, and picked up the newspaper beside him.

* * *

'I know something's bothering you, Florence. Spit it out.' Sherlock said. He was stood at the window, violin in hand, and she was reading a book on the couch. John was on another date. Florence was beginning to think he was a player.

'What do you mean?'

'You've been out of it for a long time. Never quite zoning in on a conversation, not really concentrating on much. It's beginning to frustrate me.'

'Oh, really? I hadn't noticed.' Florence tried to remember what was on her mind. There were several things, one of which she knew she couldn't tell him, about him not looking hard enough for her. There was something she couldn't remember, and:

'When you and John were having your little quarrel in the graveyard-' Sherlock sighed – he knew what was coming. '-you said I wasn't your friend. What did you mean?'

'I didn't mean it like that.'

'Clearly, so what _did _you mean?'

'I never really considered you my friend.' Sherlock said eventually, his voice sad. He turned away from her, back towards the window, replacing his violin in its stand. 'You were always more than that. I never cried, but if I did, you were my shoulder to cry on, and I tried to be that in return. You meant more to me than that. I could never just call you my friend, that never did it any justice. I...' he trailed off, and turned back to her. 'Is that all? Seems a bit... silly.'

She shook her head, her brow furrowed. She didn't know what to think about what he had said, or the way he said it, so she brushed it off. 'No. I just... can't remember anything.'

'Can't be that important, then.'

She shook her head again, but something deep, deep down told her that that wasn't true.

Then it hit her.

'James!' she exclaimed, and Sherlock looked at her, his brow furrowed. 'Do you remember when we were in the Warehouse, and before you came, I was chased by someone in a mask with an American accent?'

'You didn't tell me about the mask or the accent, but I remember, yes.' Sherlock said, closing his laptop so he could focus on what she was saying.

'Well, when I met James a few weeks ago, we were talking... and I don't know what happened or what caused it, but he slipped into an American accent, for a single word. It was the most harrowing thing I've ever heard.' she shuddered as she remembered their conversation about Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned again. 'But why would he...'

'I don't know. But that would make sense, because Michael was in on it, too.' she said, and her voice cracked with emotion as she thought about it. All that time with those men, and they were not who they said they were. At all.

'You would have noticed.' Sherlock said.

'The voice was familiar, yes – but I was running at full speed on a wet, iron roof. My mind may have been preoccupied.' she gasped. 'Also, when he came in saying the intruder or whatever had got away, he was soaking wet! He had been outside!' She said, her voice becoming increasingly more distressed as she carried on. It rose several pitches.

Sherlock's face clouded for a second. 'It would also explain why he knocked me out. He must have seen me as a threat.'

'Shit. Oh shit. Oh my god.' it was clear to Sherlock that she was spiralling.

'Maybe you should talk to someone. Michael, or Arthur. I wouldn't ask James.'

'But if it is James, Michael is in on it.' she thought for a second. 'I'm going to call Arthur.'

'Okay.' Sherlock replied. As she walked out of the room, he opened his laptop, and quickly began typing. He had full access to the government's top-secret files on everyone in Britain.

He typed James' name into the search bar. It turned out there were several James Myers' in London alone. He scrolled until he found the familiar scar.

As he read, he felt the horror creeping up on him. This was most certainly not good.

* * *

**Okaaaaay. Thank God Baskerville is over - it drags on a bit, doesn't it? I keep getting confused between all the visits to the lab... doesn't really help that this was the first "episode" I wrote before starting the whole thing, and he had just found her at that point - the things I had to change! Exhausting!**

**Please do say if none of it seems... believable. I get it, she keeps getting hurt, but it's REALLLLLLLLY difficult not to let someone you enjoy writing get hurt... **

**Hope I'm curing your quarantine blues, even just a little bit. **

:)


	27. Chapter27

_Florence Wood was dead._

_There was no other way to explain it, Sherlock gathered. She would not have spent this long away from home. Not even in her mental state – not even if they had fallen out._

_She relied on the stability her home had. She relied on the same people, the same setting, the same warm bed to fall into at night, surely to wake up with the same throbbing headache that came with being hungover._

_Mycroft hadn't updated him in nearly a week. This was getting really, really bad. She had disappeared off the face of the Earth, it seemed. He was getting increasingly more distressed as the time passed._

_Sherlock could only think of two reasons Mycroft wouldn't be talking to him. One of them was that he didn't approve of his continuing drug habits._

_This made sense, of course. What big brother would be okay with his little brother high off his nut, his once perfectly functioning brain intoxicated with a mixture of morphine and cocaine. He was disappointed in him, and Sherlock understood. It didn't mean he wasn't angry, but he understood._

_The other reason, and this was one Sherlock had already admitted but had not come to terms with – they had found his best friend dead._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Florence didn't know how to deal with this information. 'What are you trying to tell me?' an unfamiliar panic rose in her chest as Lestrade spoke to her. His voice cracked with the emotion he was trying to hide.

'I'm sorry, Florence. I really am. John's on his way back, now...' he carried on talking, but Florence heard none of it. Her phone dropped to the floor, and she heard the small _crack_ as it smashed. She didn't care. She stumbled into the bathroom before she threw up into the toilet bowl. Then she screamed, threw up again, before falling to her knees and not having the strength to get up again. Her eyes were dry – she could not cry. She was numb.

Sherlock Holmes was dead. He was dead. He was gone. No more Sherlock. She would never, ever see him again. Her rock - her very being, her reason for existence, was no longer able to fill that position.

She heard Mrs Hudson's shuffle up the stairs, and closed her eyes. She didn't want to tell her.

'Florence, dear? Is everything alright?' she called out when she reached the top of the stairs. Florence was in the bathroom still, and couldn't see her. 'Florence?'

'In here,' she called, and managed to sit up in time to see Martha Hudson look down at her.

'Is everything alright?'

The girl in front of her felt her mind snap as she shook her head. This is what it felt like. This is what Sherlock felt, all those years ago. She suddenly felt more than aching sadness - she felt all the guilt that came along with those eight years of being dead.

It took the older woman a while to catch on. She gathered that because Sherlock wasn't there, the commotion the night before and the look on Florence's face, something was wrong. When she came to the conclusion, however, her knees buckled, and she reached out for the chair that sat in the corner of the room.

That's how John discovered them, sitting in the bathroom, Mrs Hudson silently crying and Florence's eyes as hard as stone. He helped her up, taking her by the shoulders, then hugging her close. She accepted this embrace but did not return it.

He led her to the sofa, and sat her down, before going to do the same with Mrs Hudson. He then sat opposite them, and told them everything.

He had committed suicide. Just like that. No goodbye, no explanation. He just jumped off the roof of St. Bart's hospital. Apparently, he was fake. Apparently, he wasn't the genius everyone knew him to be, apparently, he had set all of his cases up. Apparently, he wasn't real.

The fact that Florence knew this wasn't true made everything three hundred times worse. She wanted to know why he had claimed this, but the crushing realisation dawned that she would never find out.

What hurt her the most was that she could see the doubt for her best friend on John's face. He believed all of it. This sparked something close to anger. She wanted to hurt John Watson.

He was still talking when Florence stood up and left the building.

_'I had a dream last night.' Florence said, breaking the silence. Sherlock, sat at the other end of her bed, looked up from his book at her._

_'Oh?' he asked, sensing she wanted to talk about it. He frowned. 'You don't have them often, do you?'_

_'Not at all. I find, though, that these dreams are strangely prophetic. When I have a dream, some aspect of it happens.'_

_'This sounds like utter bullshit, but please continue.' Sherlock said, a small smile playing on his lips. She scowled and hit him playfully on the leg._

_'You were gone. I don't know where, but no one could find you, not even Mycroft.'_

_Sherlock frowned, then he managed to think of a comeback. 'I was probably dead.'_

_'You were.' she replied, her voice serious. She had looked down at the book she was reading, and couldn't meet his eye. Sherlock, sensing this was quite difficult for her, sat up and forward, ready for her to say more. 'It was all so real.' she whispered._

_His brow creased as a tear sprung to her eye. This wasn't good. 'Hey,' he began, 'hey – look.' she didn't look. 'Look at me, Flo.' Her eyes, large and worried, found his eventually. 'I'm here. I'm right here. And if you think I'm going anywhere, I'm so sorry, but I'm really not.'_

_She smiled then, and Sherlock watched the life come back to her eyes as the tear spilled. She wiped it away, and moved forward to hug her friend. He placed his chin on the top of her head as he accepted the embrace. 'I'm not going anywhere.'_

* * *

Florence wrapped her jacket around her, to conserve the heat in her body. She still wasn't crying, and wondered if there was something wrong with her.

She tried to fill in the gaps. She knew he had been arrested, along with John, and they had run away – but she knew nothing more than that. She had been sitting in silence, worrying, for over a day. She couldn't eat, she couldn't drink. Lestrade had called, asking her a few questions. She hadn't given him any answers.

She knew all of this had to do with Moriarty. Secretly, she wondered why he hadn't tried to go after her. That's what he had done last time – it made sense. These thoughts filled her with guilt, and she pushed them aside, trying not to think about her best friend's death. That was easier said than done.

She couldn't believe it. She kept thinking that when she returned to the flat, he'd be there. It didn't seem real. None of it seemed real.

She suddenly felt the urge to throw up, and was thankful no one was within eyeshot of her.

She leaned over into a conveniently close bin and emptied the contents of her stomach for the third time that day.

_Fucking hell, Sherlock... what will I do without you... what in God's name is there to live for anymore...?_

She found herself at the coffee shop Arthur and her had had drinks a few weeks before. It may have been months. She didn't care at this point. Her phone was suddenly in her hand, and she was calling him.

_No. You don't really want to see him now, do you?_

She sighed as she realised, she did. She felt the tears coming quickly, but luckily Arthur picked up before she could break down.

'Do you remember that coffee shop we met at a few weeks ago?'

'_Yes, why?_'

Her voice cracked with emotion. 'Can you meet me there?'

Not fifteen minutes later, Arthur Jackson was sat opposite her. He watched with some concern as she placed her head in her hands and breathed in shakily.

'Sherlock...' _No. no. please don't cry. You don't need to cry. Crying does _nothing! Nothing _at all. __Crying won't bring him back. _'Sherlock's dead, Arthur,' he frowned at her. Her voice had raised several pitches, and she was glad the coffee shop wasn't too busy. No one to overhear. No one to spread the news._ He is a national icon, after all._ She thought. _No. No. He was. He was a national icon. _She suddenly felt very sick again, and took a sip of the water she had ordered when she arrived.

Arthur was still frowning. 'You're joking.' he began.

'Why the fuck would I be joking?' Florence hissed through gritted teeth. A single, hot tear slipped down her cheek, and stung her face, burning into her skin like acid. 'Look at me!'

'Oh my God...' Arthur stammered. 'Wh... How...'

'He committed suicide. Jumped off St. Bart's. Managed to convince John he was a fake. Managed to convince _everyone_. He. Was. A. Fake. But he wasn't, Arthur. He was _real_.' Her entire frame started shaking, and she placed her head back in her hands as more tears escaped her eyes. 'And... now what?' she said through shuddery breaths. _Please stop crying. Sherlock would not want you to cry. _'Now what do I do? He was my everything, Arthur!' she was fully aware of how selfish that sounded. However, it was a legitimate problem - she was going to die without him. She knew it.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, still in shock. Suddenly, he snapped back into reality, and realised what was happening.

And, what was happening was clear - his dear, _dear _friend was hyperventilating.

'Okay. Okay, Flo. Let's go. You need to talk to me.'

* * *

John Watson had never felt this before. It was a kind of ache, in his chest, that hurt more every time he breathed. _He had just watched his best friend die_.

That didn't seem real. None of it seemed real. What had just happened? He ran over the information he had learned over the past two days in his head, trying to ignore the pain in his chest.

Moriarty wasn't real, Sherlock made him up, paid Richard Brooke to act as him. _It isn't real_.

Sherlock isn't real. Sherlock _wasn't_ real. Everything that happened, he did. _It can't be true._

Now, Florence had disappeared, Mrs Hudson was audibly sobbing from below him, and he didn't know what to do.

_This is my note._

Hastily, he pulled his phone from his pocket.

_This is what people do, isn't it?_

He searched his contacts for the last person he usually would want to talk to.

_Leave a note._

A silent, unfamiliar tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away instinctively, as if someone was there to see it. No one was there. No one at all.

_Goodbye, John_.

He found the contact, and tapped on it. The phone started ringing, and he pressed it to his ear.

_He's my friend, let me through..._

'_Hello?_'

'Mycroft? Hello. It's me.'

Sherlock felt the sadness in the pit of his stomach. This was a horrible feeling. It was sort of sinking, a hollow emptiness. He'd felt it once before, when Florence had been missing for more than a week, and he was not used to her absence.

This time, however, he knew she was alive, but he couldn't go to her. He couldn't comfort her - and he knew, selfishly, _arrogantly_, that that's what she needed - him, to comfort her. And, it wasn't _just_ her. He had more friends now, more people that meant something to him. And he had just lied to every single one of them.

The plane was waiting for him as the private car pulled up to the runway. He couldn't risk going to the airport, so Mycroft had arranged discreet transportation until he was safely out of London. He would start in Glasgow, and work his way across Europe – wherever he had to go to wipe Moriarty's print off the world.

* * *

'Slow down, Flo. Please.' Arthur muttered. His fingers were pinching his brow as he devoured this information. James and Michael stood next to him, and they were all opposite Florence, in James's flat.

In other circumstances, Florence would have loved this. All three of her good friends together again, with her.

However, the circumstances now were not good, and as tear after tear rolled down her cheeks, she recounted everything she knew about the last few days – leaving out even the mildly confidential stuff.

In all honesty, she didn't know anything about what had happened the evening before, or that morning. All she knew was that Moriarty was trying to make everyone believe Sherlock was a con.

'Sherlock. Holmes. Is. Fucking. Dead.' Florence hissed, and Michael's eyes widened at this sudden outburst. 'Is this slow enough for you, Arthur? Do you need to make me repeat it a few more times, just so you can watch me...' she breathed in as she found a suitable word, '… _melt_ before your fucking eyes?'

'Calm down, Florence.' James said sternly as Arthur frowned, and her solid emerald eyes turned on his scarred face.

'Do _any_ of you understand me?' she cried, throwing her hands in the air. She knew that one of the stages of grief was anger, but that that was a bit further on. She couldn't be going through them this fast. No, this was shock.

And shocking it was, to her fellow onlookers.

'Can any of you even _hear_ me? Can you see me, do you _understand_ any of what I'm saying?'

'I know you're upset, Flo...' Michael tried to reach out his hand, but she flinched away from it.

'You don't. You don't, at all. It doesn't matter to you. You probably _believe_ Moriarty, don't you? None of you liked Sherlock. You all thought he was... I don't even know. You thought he was fake.'

'That isn't true-' Arthur began. His distress was becoming visible on his face. He did not like to see his friend like this, but calming her down now would be like trying to defuse an atom bomb seconds before it went off.

'Sure it isn't.' Florence breathed in shakily, and held her head in anguish. Her brain was screaming at her. There was this constant noise, this constant _screech, _going around and around and around and around and around...

She was losing it. She was actually losing it. She couldn't handle any of this – she would probably end up on the streets again. With no one. She would shut out _everyone_, until the only thing she'd have left was the memory of her best friend.

The thought brought a fresh round of tears to her eyes. The three men opposite her watched her, quite unsure of what to do as she wept into her palms.

Eventually, Arthur stood up. Florence had had some sort of falling out between both of the others, and he figured she needed a friend.

He stepped over the small coffee table between them, and sat beside her. She didn't even seem to notice him. He wrapped his long, thin arm around her shoulders, and pulled her to him. She fell into his chest.

'I'm sorry.' she whispered, so quiet only he could hear. He nodded, stroking her hair. He figured she needed to let it out now, otherwise she'd be crying for the rest of her life.

'We can help, you know.' Michael said, his voice timid. He knew what she thought of him. He knew she _feared_ him. Little did she know. 'We helped before-'

'You've _saved _me before. That was different.' her tone was deep as she replied. She wiped her eyes with her sleeves. 'He wasn't dead then.' she stood rather abruptly, and Arthur's arm fell. 'I have to go,' she said, her voice cracking.

'Do you really think-'

'I have to fucking go.' she growled, and was gone before they could protest.

Running down the stairs to the apartment building James was residing in, she looked out of the large window on each landing to see a sleek, black car waiting outside. A woman was leaning on it, typing ferociously on her phone. She growled internally. She knew it was there for her.

'What do you want, Mycroft?' she spat, after his assistant had opened the door for her. She had climbed in, to see the man himself uncharacteristically sitting on the other side of her.

'To offer my condolences.'

'He is...' she breathed in shakily. '... was your brother.'

'That doesn't mean anything to you.' Mycroft's voice was grave – he was genuinely sad for her. This realisation curbed the anger she was feeling.

'Yes it does. I'm talking to you, his actual family, and you're giving me sympathy.'

'You and he were... closer.' Mycroft said, turning away from her and looking towards the front window. He rapped on the seat before them, and the car started moving. Florence noticed his assistant had gotten into the passenger seat. She didn't feel completely comfortable talking in their presence.

She closed her eyes as another, fresher wave of realisation dawned on her – Sherlock was dead. He was actually dead. She rose her hand to her mouth and bit hard on her finger to stop herself from crying.

'I'm sorry.' she managed to whisper.

'It's quite alright – you have every right to be upset-'

'No, Mycroft.' Florence said. 'I'm _sorry_.'

'Oh. Yes. _Condolences_.' he said the last word with some distaste, despite him offering them to her moments before. He seemed to forget this as he continued. 'They're customary at this point. No one really means it, they're just trying to look for something to say. Something that isn't offensive, that'll make the person receiving them believe they're cared for-'

'But I do care.'

'I know you do. But you _still_ said "I'm sorry". You don't want to dwell on it.'

'Why would I want to dwell on it?'

'To teach everyone a lesson.'

Despite herself, Florence laughed a little. 'A lesson?'

Mycroft turned and looked her dead in the eye. 'I can hear the rumours, Miss Wood,' - Florence gave him a meaningful look – '_Florence. _People believe Moriarty got to you, too. Of course, no one knows about what that man did to you, and Sherlock - but everyone thinks my brother... wasn't _real_.' the words were audibly emotional for Mycroft to say. He was finding this very difficult.

'But he was. I know he was.'

'Yes. I know, too. I'm trying very hard to combat the rumours, especially about him. But trying to do that, and orchestrate everything else...'

'What lesson am I teaching people?'

'That you are with Sherlock. No matter what. You have become his face, now. Everyone knows who _you_ are. It's not Doctor Watson, it's not me. It's _you_. You are the one people liked. You could really, really help us. We want people to know Sherlock Holmes was real, and he died for nothing.'

* * *

Mycroft didn't drop her off at Baker Street. Instead, they went to his own house, where he offered her a room for the night. She protested slightly, but realised she had nowhere else to go. She had gone to bed immediately.

She checked the clock on the bedside table in one of the many spare rooms Mycroft owned. It read 2:30 am. It was so late, and she was so tired, but she couldn't sleep.

Quite suddenly, her mind caught up with her, and she couldn't breathe.

She sat up frantically, clasping at her chest as panic rose. Sherlock Holmes was dead. Her Sherlock. Her _everything_.

The panic continued as she thought about what she would do. What she _could_ do. She suddenly didn't have a home, or anywhere she could go. She couldn't stay with Mycroft, that would just be wrong.

Mycroft had told her Moriarty was dead. She didn't believe him. He knew what he was like.

Her lungs felt like they had collapsed, and they hurt just as much. She laid down again, trying to steady her breathing. Tomorrow, she'd figure out what to do.

She fell into a shallow and very fitful sleep.

* * *

Tomorrow came, as did the next few months, much to Florence's dismay. Oh, how she wanted to die. However, Mycroft had given her a mission. She had to do her bit. Then, maybe, when it had been proven he wasn't a fake, she would die. Maybe.

It turned out people cared for her more than she knew. She was like their favourite character on a TV show, and they rooted for her. She hated being treated like this. She did interviews, so, _so_ many. She answered all the same questions about Sherlock, and about her relationship with John, which admittedly went downhill. They hadn't spoken to each other since the funeral.

The funeral itself was not a dramatic affair. The only funeral she had ever been to was her mother's, but she had Sherlock with her then. This time, she was all on her own. This was more uneventful than the last, but it was what he would have wanted. The simplest farewell. He was so dramatic in his life, a quiet send-off was the perfect way to end.

According to Mycroft, at least.

Mycroft had allowed Florence to stay until she found herself again, and she had moved out within three weeks. She was now in a youth hostel, which did wonderfully for the papers.

_Dead Detective's Suspected Lover Resorted to Youth Hostel_

Lestrade kept in contact with her frequently, even asking her to look at a case with him. He missed Sherlock as much as any one of the detective's friends would, and it showed.

He was growing more and more concerned for this woman's mental health, as well. Every time he saw her, there were bigger bags under her eyes. Her lips were cracked and dry, and her cheeks were gaunt. She almost looked like she did when she was found, except this time she wasn't dead. Yet.

But everyone suspected it would only be a matter of time.

* * *

_**Ahhh, another day in Bikini Bottom. **_

**I am a bit worried about this chapter - I'm not great with emotive writing. Or emotions. Or... _writing. _**

**:)**


	28. Chapter 28

'Mycroft?' Sherlock Holmes demanded as he picked up the phone. He was sitting on a private plane, leaving England. He was becoming more and more anxious and agitated as the days went on, and it showed in his tone of voice.

'_Hello, brother dear_.'

'How is she?' he growled, cutting straight to the point. Mycroft knew immediately what he was talking about.

'_She's... okay, Sherlock. Your plan's working, but I don't know how much longer it'll last. People who've seen her have reported her as very... fragile_.'

'And John?'

'_Moving on, apparently. Found himself a girlfriend, it seems. He's doing better than Miss Wood_.' Sherlock closed his eyes. He _really_ wanted to tell them. He really, really did. But he couldn't. Not yet. It was still too dangerous.

'Keep an eye on her,' he said, his voice taking a pleading turn. 'please.'

'_I have been. I'm doing everything I can. She's living in a youth hostel, but refuses to move back in with me. She's-'_

_'_Not with Jackson?' Sherlock snapped, anxiety blooming in his chest. This was not the plan. She wasn't safe.

_'No. She hasn't seen them since the night I told her of your plan._'

'Shit.' Sherlock breathed. He thought for a moment. 'Tell Jackson. Tell him nearly everything. Tell him not to tell Florence, and tell him to look after her, at all costs. Please. From me.'

'_I will. Is that all?'_

'Yes.'

'_Alright. Good luck. Geneva next, isn't it?_'

'Yes. En route now.'

'_Keep in touch. I'll call you back later._'

'Right.'

* * *

Arthur Jackson sat back in his chair, his hand moving to his jaw. He rubbed it as he thought.

'Sherlock Holmes is alive.' he repeated at the man in front of him. 'Sherlock Holmes, the man Florence Wood can't live without, is alive, and you don't want me to tell her.' there was anger in his voice, and Mycroft could sense it. 'Yeah. Right. Okay. Makes all the sense in the _fucking world_.' he growled, slamming his hand down on the table. Mycroft did not flinch.

'It's too dangerous for her to know.'

'And it's less dangerous for her to not know? Come on, man! We both know, if you know her well, that she is an emotional _wreck_. She's probably contemplating suicide already – fuck, she was contemplating suicide the second she heard that he was dead – probably even before, knowing her. She came to us afterwards, and she was _heartbroken. _You want me to keep her salvation from her?'

'When you put it like that...' Mycroft began, and Arthur cut him off with a deadly laugh.

'You, mate, are mental. You're fucking off your head. You and Sherlock. This is preposterous. If you think I'm not telling her then bless you.'

'You can't tell her.' Mycroft said, his voice becoming more urgent. 'You really can't. For her own safety.'

'Why not? She's a clever girl. She's been without him before, knowing that he was alive and well-'

'If you're referring to the time she was away, that eight years...' Mycroft started, breathing in steadily. He hadn't spoken about this in a very long time. 'Then I regret to inform you he was hardly alive and certainly not _well_. He turned to drugs, and it became so dangerous I feared for his life. This wasn't like Sherlock, not at all. He knew the effects these drugs had on his brain power, he knew what they were doing to him, but he did it because he couldn't live without her.'

'You're not helping your point.' Arthur scoffed.

'Florence and my brother have a strange connection. They love each other, but they're not _in_ love. I don't think. I'm not the best with emotions. Their bond goes beyond friendship, it literally is the difference between life and death-'

'Cut to the fucking point! It seems as though you're on my side now.'

'Basically, Florence is in severe danger. Moriarty – the man you met at the pool – left some sort of imprint on her. He damaged her mentally, and physically, and the majority of his... extensive network... know that she was his target, hence making her their target too.'

Arthur stared at him, realisation dawning on him.

'Sherlock is trying to dismantle this network. The details, to me, are completely unknown – we can't risk saying them out loud. But, he's doing it for her, mainly – he cares very little for the rest of the world - and her insight would severely... jeopardise the entire operation.'

Arthur nodded in understanding. 'I get it. Okay. Deal. But, if she ever finds out I knew, if he comes back-'

'We're relying on him coming back-'

'-then my relationship with her would be completely ruined. Understand? This stays between us. Forever.'

* * *

'_I have a secret.' Florence said, her voice hushed. Sherlock, at nearly sixteen years old, was wary of his young friend's ways, and her childlike playfulness, even at thirteen years old. It annoyed Mycroft, but Sherlock secretly enjoyed it. _

'_Yeah?' he replied, his voice matching the volume of hers. _

'_Mhm. My mother told me not to tell anyone. She said it was a really big secret. But you're not just anyone.' She said it casually, Sherlock didn't think it was much. Perhaps money was tight. _

'_Go on.'_

'_She says she's got pills to make her happy again.' _

_Sherlock frowned. 'Pills?'_

'_Mhm. I'm scared, Sherlock. I don't think they're happy pills.'_

'_Have you… seen these pills?'_

'_No. She won't show me. But they come out when the drink does.'_

Shit_, Sherlock thought. _This is certainly not good.

'_But this is a secret, Sherlock. Promise me you won't tell anyone.'_

'_I promise. This stays between us.'_

'_Forever?'_

'_Forever.'_

* * *

Florence shut the door behind her as the first tear escaped her eyelid. It slid down her face, dropping onto her jacket. Outside, the roar of the Press still filled her ears, deafening her. Surely, that was enough. That was enough pain for one day. She sighed as she realised where she had come to. She hadn't even thought about it as she made her way home, but she was here now. She couldn't go back outside.

She grabbed her bag, which she had dropped onto the floor, and moved quickly and quietly up the stairs. The room hadn't been touched since Sherlock died, and it had a musty air to it. She leaned against the doorframe as she became overwhelmed. The black armchair still had an indent in it.

Her eyes roamed the room from where she was standing. There was his laptop, the book he was reading. There was even the newspaper he had been reading the morning it all kicked off.

This was all a bit too much. It was all too big for her. She suddenly felt like a child amongst all this emotion, swimming endlessly up, up, up, trying to reach the surface, just for a single gasp of air.

It didn't take long for her to grab her bag again and sprint down the stairs.

She hailed a cab outside 221 Baker Street, thankful that the press had gone, and gave a location. She got out her phone, and dialled the familiar number. Placing it to her ear, she fought down tears.

'Arthur.'

'_We really have to stop meeting like this._' he said, predicting her question.

'Please.'

She heard a sigh. '_Yes. Okay. I'm with the boys again. Where are you thinking?_'

She thought for a bit. 'The Warehouse.'

'_Okay. See you there.'_

She hung up, gave the new destination to the driver, and waited.

* * *

'Of course,' Arthur said, in response to the question Florence had asked before – "what will I do now?" - 'there's always the option of staying with us.'

_Perfect_, Arthur thought. _If she agrees, I'll be taking care of her, and I'll make sure she never finds out about Sherlock._

Florence frowned at him. 'After everything I've done to you?'

'What have you done to us?' James asked, confused. When he frowned, his scarred eyebrow would not move, so it only looked like he was raising an eyebrow.

'I... I don't know.' Florence said, rubbing her temples. 'I left with the memory stick. That memory stick was stolen, and I later lied to you about having it. I stayed with Sherlock, and only came to you when I saw it necessary...' she sighed. 'I'm selfish.'

'You are a little, yes.' Arthur said. 'But, if we cared, we'd have told you.'

Florence smiled slightly. She felt comforted by this.

'You asked the wrong question, though.' Michael said, his dark eyes melancholy.

Florence looked down. She breathed in, gathering the courage to answer him. 'I didn't. I... what you did was pretty shit, Michael. What's worse is that you won't tell us who threatened out lives. But I forgive you, it's been a long time and I miss you quite a bit.'

He smiled at her, a genuine smile that lit up his face.

'And you, James.' she continued, her voice deep. 'You're also a shit person. But I also forgive, and miss you.'

'Wonderful. Is this over now? It's getting quite late and this entire building is making my hair stand on end.' Arthur murmured. Florence smiled and nodded.

* * *

_Eighteen Months Later -_

Florence Wood ran a hand through her short hair as she stared down at the file before her. Her eyes narrow in concentration, she opened it, her hands shaking. This was her file. Started twelve years ago, when she was reported missing. The one Sherlock Holmes, her dead best friend, had worked on tirelessly, to find her.

Looking at it, she felt a pang of guilt. He had been through all of that, this eight inch thick file was everything he had done to save her. Everything. Now, when she knew all of this, she couldn't thank him.

Mycroft had kept it from her for a year and a half, after having offered her a job working for him. She didn't quite know what she was doing or what she was working towards, but it kept her busy. She was in one of Mycroft's foreign offices, away from London. She had requested this. At the time, she didn't want to be in London, or even England. She wanted a fresh start.

Mycroft had initially recommended America, but then he and Sherlock realised they had a girl fluent in French who wanted to be put in a foreign office. The decision was not particularly difficult to make.

Florence liked her job. She got to read interesting files, cases Sherlock had worked on. Now she could read her own.

At thirty years old, Florence had had a lot of time to ponder and regret her life choices. She didn't feel the need to have all of them stare at her, in paper form, in the face.

A knock on her office door startled her slightly. 'Come in.' she called.

Mycroft Holmes opened the door, and took the seat opposite her, on her desk. It was not often this happened, it was usually the other way around, where he was at the desk, and she was talking to him.

He eyed the unopened file before her. 'I trust this is all going well?' he said, and Florence rolled her eyes.

'I've had it, what, five minutes?'

Mycroft smiled slightly. Usually, he wouldn't let an employee talk to him like that, but Florence was... well, she was a close friend.

'Didn't you just come back from Serbia?' she asked, leaning back in her chair. Mycroft nodded.

'Actually, I've come to talk to you about that.' he said. Florence frowned, interested. 'We need to go back to London.'

Florence's frown deepened. 'For how long?'

'For as long as we deem necessary.'

'But-'

'I am aware of your... distaste... for the city. But this is really very important, and I believe that once you get there, you will be okay.'

Florence nodded. Truth be told, she trusted Mycroft with her life. 'What about Arthur?'

'I've already taken care of him. He's now a free man, and en route to the airport now.'

Arthur Jackson had gone with Florence, leaving the other two behind, and had been arrested upon trying to enter the country. It turned out the drugs he used to manufacture were quite popular in France, and he had traces of them on his jacket. They then discovered that he was the creator, and had him taken to a well-guarded, French prison.

He could speak barely any French, as Florence had learned from James, and Arthur had never really bothered to listen. But now, he was fluent.

'Okay.' Florence said, still nodding, and there was a slight smile on her face as she took in his words. 'When do we leave?'

'Right now, if that's alright. If you're not...' he looked at the file again. '…in the middle of something.'

'No.' she replied. 'That can wait.'

* * *

Florence grinned as she saw Arthur's face smiling at her from the aisle. He stood as she moved towards him, and hugged her tight.

'Are you okay?' she asked, pulling away and looking him up and down for the first time in a year. Apart from a few bruises and sunken eyes, he looked fine.

'I'm great.' he said, and she noticed how heavy his voice sounded.

'Are you sure?'

'Yeah. Just... anticipating why Holmes got me out in such a rush.' in all honesty, Arthur had a pretty strong feeling that he knew why he got out, but he didn't want to admit it.

'Me too... he had just given me my file from when I was gone, and literally five minutes later he told us we were leaving. Maybe something happened in Serbia.'

'Something that involves both of us?'

'Yeah. I don't know.' Florence sat down in the window seat of the aisle Arthur had been sitting in originally. Arthur sat next to her.

'I like what you've done with your hair.' he said, and she smiled.

'Thank you. I shaved it off when I got here. Part of the whole "fresh start" thing, and it grew back curly.'

'Did you donate the hair to charity?'

'No. The quality was terrible, they wouldn't take it. I figured that if they needed hair so much they'd take anything, but my hair was pretty shit.'

Arthur laughed. 'What did you do with it?'

'I burned it.' Florence said, her smile dropping. She noticed Mycroft had sat on the opposite side of the plane to them, and was reading a newspaper. She looked out the window as the plane began to move, the ground becoming a blur before disappearing completely.

* * *

**Hello all my hopefully still reading friends!  
**

**i'm so sorry i haven't been at the top of the updating game. things have been happening... and i haven't been writing. HOWEVER - i am treating quarantine as a positive thing and looking to push through this horrible writers' block.  
**

**Thank you if you're still reading this. it means so so much. **


End file.
